Child's Play
by panneler-san
Summary: A mute Hermione meets a very, very young Lord Voldemort.
1. Naming

A/N: New story. I'm awful, aren't I?

Naming

She woke from her nightmare with a gasp. Her eyes stared into the darkness of her shelter and adjusted slowly to the light as her rampant heartbeat slowed. Once she was positive the whistling against the walls of the old building was only wind, she let out the breath she'd held and whispered to herself frantically.

_Just a dream. Just a dream, you're safe, everything's fine. You're gonna be fine, it was just a dream. You're okay._

The falling rain against the roof sounded more like the scratching of fingernails.

She swallowed. _You're okay._  
She was keeping track of the time like one possessed. It had been exactly thirty-seven days and eleven hours since she had woken up in the wrong place. Her hand reached up under the thin blanket to grab hold of the pendant around her neck. It was the only thing she had on her person when she woke up, save for a peculiar shaped piece of wood tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. The strange object was very nearly like a stick, but a nice pattern was carved into one end, making it look almost like a handle…

Silly thing, really.

She wouldn't sleep again tonight, she knew. It was like this every time she had a nightmare. Her eyes shifted to her nightstand, on which the strange bit of wood rested. In this nightmare she'd been pointing it at someone with round glasses, practically digging it into his chest. Yelling. Crying.

What a silly notion, she thought. Still, though, as she gazed at it, she couldn't help but feel it was important, somehow.

Maybe…

Her fingers lightly touched the carvings, as she'd done a number of times, but this time it felt different. She felt… perhaps a connection. It was the first dream she'd had concerning the strange bit of tree bark. But perhaps, she wagered, the mystery of why she had such a thing with her when she woke up was too great, and her nightmares had invented a place for it in her sleep.

But stranger still, than the wood, was the necklace. Like an hourglass trapped in a golden spider's web, it was. During the long day when she sat on her bed and stared at the wall, she would fasten the chain around her neck. The silver-dollar sized hourglass-web hung in the middle of her chest; it was a long chain. To the right of the pendent was attached the smallest knob.

She had discovered it a week after she woke up, and twisted it twice. She found that the more she twisted the knob, the more times the hourglass flipped around and around in circles. It made a soft humming noise, and she felt that something should happen, expected it, even.

But nothing did.

She withdrew the necklace from under the duvet, and rolled onto her back, holding it above her with both hands. Why did she have this?

She turned the knob. The hourglass spun around once. She did it again. It spun once more. That was when she noticed something odd.

What sort of hourglass had no sand in it?

It was empty.

Storing the pendant back under the covers, she rolled to her side and closed her eyes. Nightmares or no, she wanted to try to sleep again. The next day, she had been notified, she was to apply for several different things.

It wasn't often, she'd been told, that a person lost their memory and absolutely no one had filed a missing person report. The law, she'd been kindly informed, stated that after a month of not being claimed nor experiencing a regain of memory, she was required to begin life anew.

The first step would be to pick a name. The second, to acquire an identification card. She'd no idea of how old she was, but after her initial visit to a doctor once her situation became clear, he had made an educated guess that she was approximately twenty years of age.

The remainder of her personal information was already being set up for her. Her place of origin would be Derbyshire, which was where she was found. Her legal date of birth would appear as June 30th, _when _she was found.

Anything else, she'd been told, she had to create on her own.

She wasn't sure what to name herself. Hope that her memories would return to her slowly dwindled over the days, and she'd resorted to looking through books and old theatre programs and essays for names. Nothing has stood out to her.

Sleep began to take her again, and she drifted off more easily than she'd hoped.

The man with round glasses was in her room, sitting next to her on the bed. She frowned with her eyes closed.

"I know you're there," she whispered.

The dull rustle of fabric tickled her ears as he shifted. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

She sighed and peeked up at him. His glasses shone in the low light and his lightning scar stood out impossibly well in the darkness. "You didn't wake me. I'm dreaming, aren't I?" she asked.

"Of course," he affirmed with a nod.

She looked up to the ceiling. "God, I wish I was awake."

"I wish I could help you," he admitted.

She sat up and scooted closer to him, staring into his eyes. "Who exactly are you?" she asked. "I remember yelling at you."

"I can't tell," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. You have to remember me yourself."

"But I don't remember _anything_," she said, frustrated. "Only pointing that stick at you! Who are you? Who am I?"

He shook his head, and she suddenly found herself unable to recall if this stranger's hair was black or blonde. "You're dreaming again," he whispered as the surroundings turned dark. "Wake up soon, Hermione."

At eight AM on the dot, she'd forgotten all about her dream. The office she was supposed to register her new identity at would open in thirty minutes, and she waited for the police officer that had been helping her to pick her up in his little blue car outside the motel.

She wasn't sure what it was, but the world outside looked strange. People dressed differently from how she was used to. They drove different cars, used different words, and acted in ways she did not expect. Because of this, she'd avoided much time outside, and stayed indoors as often as possible. But, her officer had told her via telegram, she had to get out there eventually.

As she baked in the heat waiting for the police officer, a bike bell chimed twice and a young boy rode past, yelling a "Morning, ma'am!" and dropping a stack of newspapers next to her feet. They were for the motel, and arrived every morning.

She stared at the date on the paper as the paper boy turned the corner.

August 7th, 1932.

It felt wrong.

The horn of the officer's car tooted merrily as he pulled up in front of her. She smiled fondly back at him and pulled on the door.

"Fancy meeting you here, miss!" he cried as she fastened her seatbelt. "Did you sleep well?"

She caught his eye and shook her head without a frown.

A crease formed between his bushy brows. "Nightmares keeping you up, love?" he asked.

She nodded.

"If you ever need my help with something, you just ask," he said. "I'll help you best I can, miss."

She smiled her thanks.

The officer kicked his tiny blue car into gear and they took off in the direction of the customs office. His enormous, shining new car phone was displayed proudly between their seats, but it didn't ring as it had the first time she drove with him.

The radio was tuned to the Police station, as she'd anticipated, but he switched it to one with a light tune that crackled slightly with static as a jolly sounding woman sang:

_Ten cents a dance,_

_ That's what they pay me_

_ Gosh, how they weigh me down!_

"It might be difficult for a young woman such as yourself to find a job in these times," the officer told her kindly. "I'm not sure how much you've forgotten of the world, miss, but these are hard times. There's talk of it being the worst depression Great Brittan has had. I'll do my best to help you out. Have you remembered anything, yet?"

He glanced at her for her answer, which she gave with a weary shake of her head.

"What about a name?" he asked. "Have you picked one for your new life?"

Her bushy hair swung back and forth with her 'no' answer.

"Don't worry, miss," he advised. "I've got a few suggestions for you if you can't think of one."

She looked at him in curiosity, and a big smile lit up his face.

"I was talking to my wife, see," he began, "about you. My Missus seemed awful concerned about such a young woman being all alone. I showed her the photograph we took when we first brought you to the station, and we both stormed our heads for names. The Missus and I picked the three you looked most like, and I've got 'em if you'd like to hear."

She nodded, eyes sparkling and hair bobbing.

They slowed down for a woman pushing a perambulator across the busy street. "The first is Phyllis," he said. "It's one of the most popular names now, and I've seen many pretty girls with _half_ the beauty of your face with it!"

She considered it thoughtfully and rolled her hand mid-air to instruct him to proceed.

"This next one, my wife is very proud of," he informed her. "She thought it suits you like Tea and Milk: Virginia."

She smiled a little at that one.

"And the last," he announced, "I thought up all on my own. I think you'll like it best of all: _Edith_."

She clapped.

"You like it?" he asked, bushy eyebrows shooting upward.

She grinned and nodded enthusiastically.

His bearded face flushed the lightest tinge of pink. "Thought you would. From what I've gathered of you, miss, you're a sensible young woman with no need for finery like all the other ladies reading American magazines and dancing with boys till it's dawn. You're a simple girl with a damn good head on your shoulders, I shouldn't wonder."

She beamed.

"One piece of advice my wife wanted me to offer you, love," he said. "She says it might be best for you to find a nice, rich bloke and marry him as soon as you can, rather than look for a job you won't find. Times are tough. Find a nice man that will treat you well and…oh, doesn't really like _talkative _women."

They shared the joke with a knowing glance.

The jolly woman singing on the radio was interrupted by the officer's car phone ringing loudly. He picked it up and held it to his ear, silencing the happy tune with a twist of the volume knob. "Hello?" he asked into the receiver. After a very long spell, he sighed and hissed, "Again? Gracious me… Tell Mrs. Cole I'll be there directly."

He hung the receiver on the big black box and glanced at the young woman.

"Sorry love, we've got to make a detour. It won't take long; I've got to sort out a problem at the orphanage."

They pulled up to the grey building not minutes later, and she immediately felt like it was blocking the very sun. It wasn't a happy place, she recognized. She got out of the car with the officer and followed him inside, sticking as close as possible. A man with grey hair met them just inside the doors.

"There you are, sir," he called, relieved. "Mrs. Cole is upstairs. She's waiting for you."

"Thanks, Barry," the officer said, and nodded to the staircase. "Follow me, miss, and stay near."

Mrs. Cole appeared to be drunk. An older woman, running an establishment such as this usually required sober work, but it seemed Mrs. Cole was at her wit's end.

"You're here, officer!" she cried.

They were in a small room with a large, dark wardrobe. On a tiny bed squished into the corner sat a very young boy with dark, dark hair and piercing eyes. They regarded each other, and she found she couldn't look away.

"What's happened this time?" the officer asked.

"We need to speak in privet," Mrs. Cole hinted.

He turned to her and smiled. "Be right back, Miss. Won't take a moment."

They walked into the hall and shut the door.

The boy stared at her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She shrugged.

He frowned. "What are you doing here? Come to take a look at me?"

She shook her head.

"You're odd," the young boy said. "Can't you speak?"

She paused, and shook her head.

"You're different too, then," he whispered.

She stared.

"I'm only six," he confided in her, "but Mrs. Cole keeps whispering behind my back that I'm not like the other children. Are you like me?"

She blinked.

"Do you want to know my name?" he asked her.

She found herself nodding.

He hopped off the bed and came to her, taking her hand in his tiny one and pulling her ear down to his mouth. "It's a secret," he insisted when she didn't budge.

Relenting, she allowed him to lead her onto one knee so his breath tickled the side of her face. She waited, but he said nothing. Turning her face to his, she looked into his eyes and he looked back, just as serious. A somber mood filled the air as he took a breath.

"My name is Tom," he whispered.

A/N:

Next Chapter: Childhood


	2. Childhood

A/N: Second bit. I rather enjoy writing this.

Childhood

Tom Marvolo Riddle had her sit on his bed with him as he talked to her, about anything he could say. The boy talked faster than a horse race, but it seemed he was eating up her company.

"My room is the smallest one," he informed her.

She could see it was true. The whole space couldn't have been more than seven feet in either direction.

"I don't like it much, but Mrs. Cole tells me there aren't any I can switch to. Do you live in a large room? They're almost always cold, but my room is just so small."

At a loss, she nodded in agreement.

"We don't have a school here," he blabbed, "and I'm old enough now to go to primary class, older even, so I _should _be entitled to a larger room, but none of the other boys are my age, so Mrs. Cole sent me with the younger boys, so that must be why my room is so small, but I _should_ be in first grade now and attending the co-education elementary, but because I'm just in Primary school even though I'm older the students all laugh at me. They think I'm stupid. So, I asked Mrs. Cole why she made me go with the younger boys instead of going to first grade, and she told me it was because I would be lonely attending first grade by myself, and that I'd have much more fun if I went to school with the boys I knew from here, rather than make new friends that aren't orphans. I asked why I couldn't just attend class with the girls my age from the orphanage, and she said it wasn't seemly for a young boy and girl to be friends and spend much time in each other's company."

She was aware of how serious a matter this was for Tom, and nodded.

He continued. "But, just last week, I was sneaking a biscuit from the pantry in the kitchens and I heard Mrs. Cole talking to Barry – he's her uncle, or cousin, I think. She was telling him that because of my behavior and the way I act out, she wanted to send me to a sort of military school, I think, for children, and that she couldn't afford the transportation fee yet, so she'd lied about being worried that I would get lonely to keep me in primary class a year longer."

There was something unnerving about the way Tom's eyes shone in the light from his dirty window, but she mentally slapped herself at the thought. This was such a young child. What wrong could a six-year old possibly do?

Tom took, quite possibly, his first breath. "I was mad. I wanted to go to my rightful place in school, and Peter – one of the boys here that's a year younger – Peter wouldn't stop teasing me about it. He'd gotten the whole class in on it, and Mrs. Cole never noticed that I hadn't made any friends at all. Peter wouldn't stop bothering me about being out of place, and I was still angry because of Mrs. Cole's lie, so I set a snake on them."

That caught her attention, and she blinked, a light frown on her face.

"A snake lived in our kitchen for a month before Mrs. Cole made Barry chase it out," he explained, "but it just moved into the walls. I knew seeing it upset Mrs. Cole, because she was always screaming whenever it slithered around our feet at mealtimes, and Peter gets very white when he sees it. I thought I'd ask the snake for help, and she scared them for me."

She tried to hide her smile. Of course, Tom made it sound like this snake was a friend, and that they'd spoken. She wondered, briefly, if she'd ever had an imaginary companion as a child.

At this point, Tom's face flushed and he looked down at his hands, resting stiffly in his lap. She thought he looked very nearly ashamed. "I really didn't ask her to bite Peter," he whispered.

She paled.

"I just told her to scare him. Now Peter's somewhere else – I think a hospital. Mrs. Cole thinks I was keeping the snake in my room and made it attack him, but I didn't. I only wanted Peter to stop teasing me."

He sniffed, and she realized quite suddenly that he was crying. She didn't remember having to comfort a distressed child, and even if she'd comforted thousands before, her mind whirled because she did not know what to do. Tom must be lying about the snake, she reasoned. He had kept it in his room and set it loose on Mrs. Cole and the boy for revenge, and felt guilty that things had gotten out of control and Peter was hurt. So, she concluded, he lied because he was ashamed, and was crying because no one believed him and he felt responsible.

What he wanted now, she realized, was not another adult that didn't trust him, or even someone that did. He wanted someone to listen.

She reached out and gently enveloped the crying boy in her arms, who seemed surprised at first, but clutched her dress in his hands and buried his face into her shoulder after just a moment.

"Do you have a name?" he whispered as she stroked his hair. "Even _I_ have a name."

He seemed to recall that she was mute, and pulled back a little to look her in the eyes.

"Can you write it out? I learned to write last year, but I still have trouble reading. But it should be fine…" He hopped up and scurried over to his wardrobe, grasping the handles and yanking it open in feverish anticipation. When Tom returned to his post next to her, he carried an old, yellow notepad and an orange pencil that looked like it'd been chewed on. The led wasn't very sharp, she noted. "Here," he said, handing them to her. "Write your name."

The only problem; Hermione Granger had absolutely no idea who she was. She stared down at the notepad and thought. Tom started wriggling in impatience. After a short while, Hermione slowly began to write.

_Edith, Phyllis, Victoria_

Tom read the names aloud, struggling to pronounce the vowels correctly. "Eee-die-th… Pie-llis… Victor-ia…" He frowned and glanced at her seriously. "This is your name?"

She wrote on the paper. _I have to pick one._

"Why?" he asked.

_I don't have a name, yet._

"I like Edith best," he announced.

She smiled and wrote, _Why?_

"You look like an Ed," he confided. Determination flared in his eyes. "Yes. You look most like an Ed. Anyway, Ed, why can't you speak?"

She had just finished writing out, _I can't remember,_ when the door clicked open and Mrs. Cole and the officer trudged back inside, grim expressions on their faces. Tom immediately reverted to his quiet, suspicious self, grabbing Hermione's arm and peeking out from behind her. The two adults stopped and took in the sight. The officer sighed.

"Tom," said Mrs. Cole firmly. "Please come here."

Grudgingly, the young boy scooted off the edge of the bed and walked closer to the older woman, tugging Hermione along by the fingers. With all three adults and the child standing in the middle of the tiny room, Hermione found they barely fit. The room really _was _too small, even for a boy of six.

Mrs. Cole and the officer exchanged a glance. "I need you to promise me, Tom," Mrs. Cole began anew, "that you won't keep any more animals in the asylum. You have to ask either me or Barry for permission to bring anything outside _inside_, understood?"

His face burned in shame and from the unfairness of being wrongly accused. Mutely, he nodded. "Yes."

"Yes _what_?" she prodded.

"Yes _ma'am_,"

The officer stepped up. "Peter is well," he informed the boy, who looked up sharply. "We received a telegram from the hospital, and they say with a little bed rest he should be fine. We're very lucky that your pet snake wasn't poisonous, you know," he said. "Isn't that right, Tom?"

Tom grit his teeth. "Yes, sir."

"We know this isn't your fault," the officer continued, "so Mrs. Cole has agreed not to punish you today. But Tom, Peter isn't the first boy or girl to be hurt because of you."

Hermione looked back and forth between Tom and the officer. The young boy stared daggers at the floor, his tiny hand tightening around hers. "I didn't do those," he spat through his teeth.

Mrs. Cole sighed. "Tom…Even with the snake incident-"

"I didn't!" he insisted. "Ed, tell them I didn't do it!"

Everyone turned to look at Hermione, who stepped back under the pressure of their gazes. The officer scratched his head, puzzled expression on his face. "Ed?" he asked.

Tom pointed an accusing, chubby finger at her. "It's her nickname," he explained. "For Edith,"

Silence. No one moved. Hermione held her breath.

The officer threw back his head and laughed. "Ed!" he wheezed. "Such a pretty thing's name? Oh, ha ha ha! Mrs. Cole, it seems these two have become fast friends!"

The drunk woman giggled nervously and looked at her strangely. "Yes," she agreed, and hiccoughed slightly. "It would seem so…"

"Well, 'Ed' and I need to get to the customs office," he gasped, wiping a tear from his cheek. "How about I let young Tom off with a warning and we get on our way?"

"I said I didn't-!" Tom cut off.

Hermione had squeezed his hand. He looked up at her, his dark eyes piercing and cold. She shook her head.

"Come along, Ed," the officer chortled. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life!"

She let go of the boy's tiny hand. Mrs. Cole exited the room with a worried glance at the child, followed by a tickled officer. She waved at the six year old and followed suit.

"Don't go,"

She froze at the doorframe. Tom Riddle had tears in his eyes. His pale face had flushed an angry pink, and he furiously wiped his face. "Don't go, yet," he said. "I hate it here. Mrs. Cole is awful to me, and now the other children won't want to play, especially Peter. You're the only one who's listened to me." He sniffed in determination. "Don't go, Ed."

Hermione looked at the young boy with pity. After a few silent moments, she crossed the small space to his bed where the yellow paper pad lay forgotten on the thin duvet, and scribbled on it before smiling at him and leaving after the officer.

Tom leapt to the bed and seized the note once she was gone. It took him a full forty seconds to read the short note, and once he did, his tiny face lit up. A smile barely tickled the edges of his mouth.

_I'll see you soon, Tom._

_ Edith_

It was there that he decided he had to perfect his reading. How else would he listen to his new friend?

"Seatbelt," the officer reminded Hermione once they were in the car.

She started, and clicked the belt into place.

"Mighty strange boy, that Tom Riddle," he murmured as they backed out of the orphanage's driveway and onto the street. The radio crackled back to life as a woman sang,

_I'm nobody's baby!_

"Something off about one so young having so many accidents," he said quietly to himself. He caught Hermione's eye and grinned. "Still, the asylum will do that to children. I never had children myself, but my Missus knows all about them from talking to the other ladies. She says all asylum girls and boys grow up to be a bit…off. Something about not being properly taught. Something about not learning about the world from parents. But! Ed, huh?"

She flushed.

"Did you pick Edith or did he?"

The young woman shrugged.

"I knew my name was the best one!" he cried. "Even little Tom thought so!"

She smiled.

"Do me a favor, Edith," asked the officer. "Make your middle name 'Virginia'. My wife was so proud of it, she'll be heartbroken if it isn't used."

Hermione blinked at the earnest request, and then beamed, nodding to the man who had become her first friend.

He smiled. "Thanks, Ed."

The office visit didn't take more than two hours. They went in, filled out forms, signed forms, and then the final part of her application for her new life arrived.

"You haven't filled in a last name," the woman wearing a dotted pink scarf behind the counter told them.

She shivered. The office was cold and large, a huge change from Tom's small room. Hermione blinked and looked at the blank spot on her application. Desperate, she turned to the officer.

He scratched his beard. "Well, now, I hadn't thought of that," he said. "You could pick anything. If nothing comes to mind, you could always use my last name. Ha ha, I can tell my family that you're my secret daughter! Naw, my wife would kill me…That's a rubbish idea. Any clue what you'll pick?"

She wasn't sure. The only name that came to mind was a simple, common one. But, when she looked at it as the woman with the dotted scarf folded her application and sealed it in an envelope, she couldn't help but feel she remembered it.

Somehow.

_ Edith Virginia Black_

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Naming

Next Chapter: Ed


	3. Ed

A/N: I received some confusion as to why Tom is in an asylum. Asylum is an old word for orphanage. He isn't in a mad house. I'm trying to be as accurate for the 1930's as I possibly can, sooo… Yeah. Chapter 3.

Ed

Hermione awoke from her nightmare and stared at the ceiling, too frightened to close her eyes. Her teeth were clenched and her mouth was dry. It was still dark outside, and every shadow in the room looked like the masked men in her dream, lurking in the corners.

_Just a dream. No one is here._

Comfort seemed a long ways off, and Hermione ended up staying awake and staring at the ceiling, rigidly frozen, until the sun came up. Once the shapes of the masks had melted because of the light seeping in through the windows, she felt safe enough to move.

The paper boy tipped his cap with another "Morning, ma'am!" as he dropped the stack of news at her feet on the corner of the road. Today, she wasn't waiting for a ride from the officer. She was officially on her own.

The motel wouldn't accommodate her much longer; it had been at the officer's request that they wait until she had been hired for her to check out, but once he had stopped showing up to check on her, they made it clear that if she wasn't going to pay, she had to leave.

This would be her fourth day job searching. Hermione was no fool – she recognized a pattern at every place she applied. First, when she walked in the doors, they would tell her there were no vacancies. Then she would hand them a note explaining her condition. Finally, they gave her a pitying look, but said there were still no vacancies.

Hermione had visited nearly every shop and office in the area, and she was beginning to worry that she would have to move to find work. That was a risk she wasn't sure she was willing to take. The officer had told her that, if nothing else worked out, she could stay at his home with his wife and pull some strings to find her employment.

She felt guilty. The officer had already done so much for her. The last thing Hermione wanted to do was intrude in his home.

As she stood still on the corner, wondering where to try today, she stared at her dreadfully thin resume.

_Edith Black_

_ No known Education_

_ Seeking Employment_

_ Mute, does not know sign language, currently suffering from amnesia._

Suffering.

She breathed in and sighed. Perhaps she would try the flower shop.

Hourglass jewelry fastened around her neck and ornately carved stick in her dress pocket, Hermione started toward the marketplace.

The sun beat down, hot and harsh. She dabbed her forehead with a blue handkerchief as she walked, wiping away the sweat that rolled uncomfortably down her face. There wasn't a way to reach the drops that were trapped on her back, and it made her wriggle uncomfortably. She caught herself thinking that, had the length of her dress been around her knees rather than hugging her ankles, it wouldn't be nearly so awful.

Then she mentally slapped herself; how indecent would it be for her to wear a skirt that was hemmed above her knees? Where had she gotten such an idea, anyway?

The flower shop bell tinkled merrily as she walked in through the door. A young man in his late tweens with the beginnings of acne forming on his skin smiled at her and dusted off his dirty brown apron. "Morning, Miss," he said. His accent was thick, and not distinguished like she had heard from the officer or the motel staff. "And 'ow may I 'elp you today? Come to get a batch 'o poppies? Last ones of the season, I guarantee, Miss!"

Hermione smiled at him and shook her head.

The young man looked confused.

She held out the papers she carried, and with a suspicious glance, the young man took them. He looked them over, and very soon it became clear to her that he couldn't read. He looked up at her and grinned. "Only a moment, miss," he said, and vanished into the back of the store. "Mum!" she heard him hiss. "Mum, there's a lady outside that 'anded me these!"

"What is it?" asked an older, feminine voice. The crinkling of her documents met her ears, and after a long spell of silence the woman murmured. "This here, this says she can't speak. She's mute, love."

"Mute?"

"And she's looking for a job. Poor dear – I wish we could help her."

The tween returned moments later, looking awkwardly away from Hermione, refusing to meet her gaze. "Ah," he began, "Circumstances being what they are, Miss, we do wish we could hire you, but… 'ow is the question, seeing as we're full on 'ands already, and you wouldn't be of much…Er, but good luck, Miss! Why not try the bakery down the way? I 'eard they was looking for a vacancy to fill!"

The reaction she received at the bakery was the same as the one she was given at the flower shop. It was the same answer she had gotten from the restaurant, the lawyer's office, the boutique, and the ladies' club. She had even been rejected at the cotton factory.

There was little hope left, and with a heavy heart Hermione continued wandering, further and further from the town and closer to the wild planes. The list of places she could apply to grew thinner and thinner – no one was hiring in these difficult times, and there was simply no place for a girl who couldn't even speak.

Tenderly, she held the gold-hourglass necklace in her hand as she walked, twisting the little knob over and over. The stick in her pocket really weighed her down, and as the streets eventually turned from paved to dirt and the buildings regressed from large offices to humble homes to rocks and cliffs, she found herself wanting to reexamine it.

It was nigh two in the afternoon when the last signs of civilization slid behind the horizon and Hermione found herself quite alone, and without the urge to cease her traverse into the unknown countryside. The piece of wood was withdrawn from her dress pocket, and she held it up to the light, noting for the first time that it was made of vine wood, and the soft chocolate-like brown glowed deeply in the high sun.

_What is this? _She asked herself. _Of all the things in the world I could have with me when I woke up, why this?_

The answer was tickling her brain and hanging on the tip of her tongue and staring her in the face, but no matter how much she thought, she couldn't grasp it.

_It's almost like my memory has been blocked, _she thought.

For one wild, mad moment, Hermione felt flesh memory compel her to hold the arm grasping the stick straight out, pointing it at the moors and the valley below. But, she resisted. Why do such a strange thing? What flesh memory did she have?

She didn't have any memory at all.

Hermione grit her teeth, turned sharp on her heel, and stalked back to the city.

… … …

The motel would toss her onto the streets in three days, and she was getting desperate. Never mind not having money to eat – she wasn't going to have a place to sleep. Hermione had never been homeless before. Or, she didn't think she had. If there was any sort of skill involved in the art, it had long since been forgotten. With worry in her mind and a terrible feeling gripping her heart, she decided to make good on her promise and visit the orphanage.

Perhaps spending time in the company of a child with just as many worries as she would prove comforting. Perhaps she was compelled by the mystery that was young Tom Riddle. Perhaps she had just gone mad. Regardless, Hermione arrived at the door of the orphan's asylum a half hour past noon.

When the entrance swung open, she was expecting to see Barry, or Mrs. Cole, but instead was greeted by young Tom himself, who wasted no time in practically throwing himself into her arms.

"You're here!" he cried. "You really came! I saw you from the upstairs window so I ran down the stairs and nearly tripped, but I wanted to open the door for you, so it didn't matter!"

She smiled, and still slightly surprised by his sudden appearance, gently pushed him back so she could see his face. Tom's dark eyes were alight, and his face was flushed pink. She waved hello to him.

He grinned. "Welcome back, Ed."

They were once again in his tiny room, sitting side by side on the bed. Tom's yellow paper pad lay across her lap, and Hermione wrote furiously quick. Tom admired her motor skills from his position to her left, and waited patiently for her to finish.

_Where is Mrs. Cole? I didn't see her when I came in. Barry isn't here either._

"They're taking the other children to the foster center," he replied. "Some of them are going to homes today, and the others are there to show off for new parents."

_Aren't you going with them?_

"I'm being punished for the snake incident," he told her. "It isn't fair. I'm grounded here, and the others might be getting adopted."

Hermione couldn't bring herself to smile to assure him. So, she wrote, _Hasn't anyone shown an interest in adopting you, Tom?_

He shook his head. "There was one couple," he said. "A long time ago. I don't remember it, Mrs. Cole said I was just a baby at the time. They wanted to adopt me, but something went wrong and they couldn't. So I stayed here, and no one has considered it since."

_I'm sorry, Tom. I don't see why no one would want you as a son. You're so sweet to me._

He read it with a grin. "That's because I like you, Ed," he explained. "This is strictly between us," he whispered, and she leaned closer to hear him, "But you're my only friend. You're supposed to like friends."

Her heart ached for the small boy. What a terrible life he was living. It wasn't any wonder to her why he acted out. Hermione gripped the pencil tighter. _I like you, too. You're one of my only friends, as well._

Tom gasped, as if he'd been struck with a bolt of lightning, and sat up straight. "Ed!" he cried, "Maybe…Maybe you could adopt me?"

Her heart sunk.

"I can leave this place and live with you!" he continued. "You're my friend – you can do it, can't you?"

When she didn't write on the quickly-filling page, Tom frowned.

"Can't you?" he asked again. "Ed?"

_Tom, _she began, _In truth I don't have a home. I don't even have a job. I would love to have you with me, but I can't even support myself. How could I feed you?_

He had gone oddly quiet. After a whole minute with no response, Hermione wrote _Tom? _And showed him the paper. He looked away. She presented it in front of him again.

"You're like everyone else," he whispered suddenly. "'I'd love to, but I can't.' You're just like the others, Ed."

She shook her head.

He looked up at her and saw the worry in her eyes. She signaled 'no' again. Tom sighed. "Sorry."

That was all. Just 'sorry'.

Hermione bit her lip and wrote very slowly. _If I can get a job, I can try._

He blinked.

_But I'd have to have enough money saved up for a small flat. I won't be able to buy you expensive things, Tom, and I'm not even sure if I can always give you a square meal. Knowing that, would you still want me to adopt you?_

"Yes!" he cried, and buried his face in her hair. She held him close for a moment, musing at the strange relationship she had with the boy she'd only met twice. Tom yanked back and asked very quickly, "How do you get a job?"

_There has to be a place that has spots open._

"How does a spot get opened?"

_If someone already working there leaves._

"Why would he leave?"

_There are loads of reasons, Tom._

"So all you need is an open spot, right?" he asked.

She smiled and nodded.

He grinned. "You'll find one. I know you will."

A voice, one she was sure she'd heard before, echoed in the back of her mind. _You'll find him. I know you will. _Hermione shook her head to clear it, and the voice vanished. She wasn't sure if it had really been there, or if she'd invented it. Young Tom beamed up at her, and for the remainder of her visit, he dragged her around the building and showed her all the places the other children stashed sweets away from Mrs. Cole, the best hide-and-seek spots, the secret vent in the kitchen that led outside, and the warmest room that Tom swore on his life had once housed a Great Dane puppy, before it was discovered and sent away.

It wasn't until three days later that she received the news of Barry Cole's death.

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Childhood

Next Chapter: Vacancy at the Orphan's Asylum


	4. Vacancy at the Orphan's Asylum

A/N: Er…Here you go.

Vacancy at the Orphan's Asylum

"I think he fell down the stairs," someone whispered.

"I heard he drank himself to death," whispered another.

"Someone said he had been poisoned,"

"It must have been an accident."

"What if it was a suicide?

"What if it was a murder?"

The group of women gathered around the home and garden's section of the bookstore gave each other nasty, grave looks.

"Mr. Cole was a decent man," said one of the ladies. "A sight better than his cousin, I'll have you know. I just can't _imagine_ why anyone would want to hurt him."

"Maybe it wasn't a person," said the eldest.

The others looked at her like she had spiders in her hair. "What _do_ you mean?"

"It's that Asylum," she informed them in hushed tones. "Don't you recall? There was a season a few years back when it rained almost every day, nearly drowned out all the farmers west of the city!"

A lady in a large hat gasped. "I do remember that! Are you telling _that _story?"

The youngest spoke up again. "What story?"

"You and your husband hadn't moved in, yet," said the eldest. "Everyone in the neighborhood heard about it. One terrible, stormy evening, in the dead of night, a young woman arrived at the orphanage. She was going into labor."

The other women murmured amongst themselves, recalling the story as the youngest asked where the father of the woman's child had been.

"No one knows," she continued. "Perhaps Mrs. Cole did – before the alcohol addled her memory. That was the weekend that Barry was visiting his cousin, so he left his wife in Liverpool and came down here to see her. He was there that night, helped Mrs. Cole deliver that poor, wretched woman's baby. I heard from Barry himself, just months after the fact, that the woman just had time enough to give her newborn son's name to the Coles', before she expired from the strain."

The young woman gasped, and her gloved hand flew to cover her mouth. The Eldest glanced around the bookstore to check for eavesdroppers before motioning all the ladies closer to her. She whispered so quietly, they had to practically press their ears against her mouth to hear her, "I have a notion that the mother _could _have been saved, had Barry or Mrs. Cole sent for a doctor. But they did not, and the mother did not live. And then, that _very same night_…Barry's wife had an accident."

The other ladies had not been informed of this, and chattered for a moment before the eldest held up her hand for silence.

"It was tragic. I shan't repeat the details. Barry moved in with his cousin, having no children to look after, and has stayed at the Orphan's Asylum ever since."

"That's a horrendous coincidence!" said a woman.

"I don't think it was a coincidence at all," she returned quietly. "You see, maybe only a few months after the mother died at the Asylum, a young couple was interested in adopting a newborn infant."

"So?"

"This infant was the mother's child."

The ladies gasped.

"Once they were all ready to sign the adoption papers, both of them, and I mean _both of them _had an accident and died."

One woman whispered a prayer under her breath.

"I don't know what became of the child," she said, "I doubt Mrs. Cole or Barry ever told the boy what happened, if they didn't just send him away. I don't even know if the boy is alive. But after that night, nearly seven years ago, things in that neighborhood have been strange ever since. Like a curse has been placed over the orphanage, as punishment for not saving the mother." She shook her head gravely. "Now things have gotten out of hand. This was not an accident, nor was it a suicide. It's the curse."

None breathed for fear of ruining the effect. Only the youngest seemed unconvinced, and shuffled her feet under her dress.

"Suppose, _just suppose _it was a…murder," she sniffed. "Barry Cole hasn't ever done anything to anyone. Dear man couldn't hurt a fly. Usually – I read this in an Agatha Christie novel – when someone has been killed intentionally, it's because out there is a chap that can gain from their death."

"But," said the Eldest, put out that her theory was being rationalized, "That's so absurd! We don't even know if this was a murder. It probably wasn't!" There was a pause. "Right?"

They settled into an uncomfortable silence. As the ladies began to slowly leave the bookstore, murmuring in groups of two or three, eventually only the eldest was left, and sighed heavily to herself.

"But who on earth has the most to gain from a death like Barry Cole's?"

Tom Marvolo Riddle sat silently in the mess hall with the other children. No one was eating – there wasn't any food on the table, despite it being nearly two in the afternoon. None of them moved nor spoke; it was all they could do, to sit in absolute stillness and listen to Mrs. Cole sob in her office.

One of the younger girls tugged on another girl's sleeve and pulled her head close. "Why did she call us in here?" she asked in a stage whisper. "I thought she was going to give us lunch."

The other girl frowned at her and said "Shh!" putting a finger to her lips.

"But I'm starved!" she complained.

"Then go get something from the kitchen!" Tom hissed, the both girls fell silent instantly.

He was hungry, too. Everyone was hungry. Couldn't she see that?

There was a noise out in the hall that interrupted Mrs. Cole's sobbing, like a latch popping out of place. Tom stood up so quickly that his spindly chair crashed to the hard floors, and the other children jumped. He raced out of the mess hall and into the entrance way, where he caught Hermione taking off her sunhat.

"Ed!" he cried, and threw his arms around her middle. Hermione patted his head and pulled a very small notepad and pen from the pockets of her dress (she had spent nearly all the money she owned on it).

_Hello, Tom. I heard about Barry. How are you and the others?_

He read much faster than she was used to seeing him read, and looked up at her with a sour frown on his pale face. "It's been awful, Ed," he said. "Mrs. Cole hasn't done anything but cry ever since yesterday, and there were loads of police here, asking us questions and roping bits of the building off. We had to stay in our rooms all afternoon, and we didn't get dinner, and now Mrs. Cole is in such a mess that she yelled at the cook, told her not to come back, and we haven't even had breakfast. We're starving." He took her hand. "I'm glad you're here," he confessed.

Hermione sighed. _Why not let me talk to Mrs. Cole? I think she needs a friend right now._

"You're good at that," he agreed, nodding. "But Ed – you can't talk. How are you going to speak with Mrs. Cole?"

She tousled his dark hair and left him with another note. _Bring the other children into the kitchen to find a snack. I promise you you'll all get a proper supper._

Tom ran off to the mess hall, and Hermione took a deep breath. The office was not hard to locate, as all she needed to do was follow the sounds of Mrs. Cole's crying. Once she was in front of the door, she raised her fist, and knocked three times.

The sound of a particularly nasty sob was her response. Hermione couldn't call out that she was coming inside, so instead she knocked thrice more and pushed the door firmly open.

She was drunk, and to no one's surprise. The gin bottle on the desk was one third full, and there were two others without a drop in them next to that. Hermione closed the office to give them some privacy and pulled a chair up to her desk. The fat woman didn't even seem to notice nor care she had an audience. She rubbed her red face, violently wiping tears off her cheeks and smearing her makeup. Hermione sighed.

_Mrs. Cole, I'm sorry for your loss._

If she had read the note, she didn't show it, and instead breathed in a shuddering gasp. Hermione grit her teeth and began writing her second message.

_My name is Edith Black, and I came here with Officer_

"Go!" the woman cried, seizing the top sheet of paper and ripping it from the notebook. It crumpled like fabric in her fist. "I don't want to see any more – _hic_ – police or, or private investigators, or any of that _tripe_! I want to be left alone!"

She tried again. _I am none of those things, Mrs. Cole. I'm here to visit Tom Riddle._

Reading this through her blurred vision, the older woman sniffed her cries to a much lower volume and tried to keep up with the speed at which the young woman wrote.

_I consider Tom a friend of mine. I came here to pay my respects for your recently departed, but a rather alarming fact has come to my attention, Mrs. Cole, and I feel I simply must discuss it with you._

Her attention was rapt now. Hermione's urgent way of writing must have even sobered her up a little. "What 'alarming fact'?" she asked. "Do…do they think it's a murder?"

_The children, _Hermione wrote, _have not eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. Are you aware of this?_

Mrs. Cole gasped, a tiny, tiny gasp, and hopped to her feet, shaking the office floor with her weight. "Meals!" she murmured. "I-I forgot…The cook said Barry died because he drank himself to death, and I was so angry that I fired her… Oh, the children!"

It struck the young woman in that moment that Mrs. Cole was not a bad person; she clearly loved working with the boys and girls (despite the constant headache from Tom), and felt terrible about losing her mind in her grief.

The fat woman whirled around and clasped Hermione's hands. "Edith," she said, "Thank you. I – I can request a leave when Barry…When Barry's funeral comes around. I can grieve then." She sniffed, and furiously pushed a tear away. "For now the children…What to do about the children?!"

It took her nearly twenty seconds to free her hands from the clutches of Mrs. Cole's iron grip, but when she did, she smiled comfortingly at the woman and wrote another message. _First, you need to send your cook a telegram, unless she has a house phone. Let her know you need her to come back. You may have to apologize, no matter how much it hurts your heart. If the message reaches her within the hour, she can be back in time to make the children dinner._

Mrs. Cole nodded as she read, word for word as Hermione wrote, and took a swig of brandy that she produced from under her desk.

_And you must stop drinking!_

She froze.

_You have work to do, Mrs. Cole. Barry wasn't just lost to you. I've heard much from the neighbors since yesterday morning, but it seems that the children were just as attached to him. Right now you need to make sure they are fed, and you need to secure someone to take over for you while you attend Barry's funeral._

"Of course," she mumbled. "You're right. First I must…I must send Cook a telegram…Oh, what will my dear aunt say when she hears about Barry? I must secure my leave…" A strange expression took over Mrs. Cole's face, as if she had an epiphany but was rather confused about it, anyway. "Edith Black, you said your name was?"

_Yes._

"The Officer that comes here when young Tom makes trouble told me all about you," she revealed. "He said he'd never seen a kinder, quieter soul."

Hermione felt her face flush. _I'm only quiet because I'm mute._

"No, no," she said. "He told me how nice he knows you are. Came by last week, after the both of you dropped by, to let me know that little Peter Hennings had been found by a family while in the hospital. He told me that you'd been job searching every day without rest, and how much he wished he could've helped you. Have you found a job yet, Miss Black?"

Hermione shook her head.

Mrs. Cole nodded firmly. "I don't know if you have any experience with children," she said slowly, "But God knows I'll be needing help to run things around here until things have settled down and I can… I can lay Barry to rest…"

She felt hope surge through her.

Mrs. Cole tilted her head. "How about, at least for now, you take over Barry's old job? It isn't much – some basic maintenance, taking the children into the yard for exercise, making sure none of them are being excluded or picked on…Barry even found a few worthy families for our older boys and girls." She beamed fondly at nothing, seemingly lost in a memory. "The officer also mentioned that you couldn't stay much longer at that motel. We have plenty of rooms here, Miss Black, so how about you work here for a few weeks?"

She could hardly believe her ears. Hermione felt all the frustration of her disability and being looked down on and rejected no matter where she went wash away, and the relief was so immense that she threw her hands over her lips, as if it could block the tears that escaped from her eyes.

Mrs. Cole laughed half-heartedly, but warmly. "Aren't I supposed to be the one crying?" she asked. "Do you want to work here or not work here?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Not work here?"

Her head shook.

"So you want to, then?"

She beamed and wrote _YES_.

The older woman drew Hermione into her arms and patted her back. "Thank you for your concern for Barry and the Children, Miss Black," she whispered. "You're honest to God the first person that's come in here to offer words of comfort."

The fat woman, now nearly sober, toddled off to send her cook the telegram while Hermione composed herself. Once the tears had been cleaned from her face and her heart was much lighter, she collected her notebook and pen and left the office to search for Tom.

She found him in his room, kneeling on his bed with his face pressed against the window. His breath made the glass around his mouth foggy. She smiled and knocked. Tom spun around. "You didn't leave," he said.

She tilted her head.

"I'm glad," he admitted. "Have you found a job yet, Ed?"

Hermione grinned, showing off her teeth and nodded. _I'm going to be working here, Tom. You'll see me every day._

Tom laughed, as if this was unbelievable but wonderful. "See?" he asked excitedly. "I told you, didn't I? Didn't I?"

Her head was so full that she could hardly understand what the boy was talking about, so she opened her notebook to ask him what he meant when Mrs. Cole's voice called up the stairs.

"Miss Black? If you're up there, come down and help me write the telegram to Cook! I don't know how to word this…"

Hermione instead wrote Tom a promise to be back as soon as she could, and dashed downstairs to assist the older woman. He watched her go. Then, he returned to his position gazing through the window. The glass was cool, and Tom's face was flushed, so he pressed it against the clear material and let his breath fog up the spot on the ground, just outside in the yard, that Barry Cole had his heart attack and died.

"I told you you'd find an open spot," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Ed

Next Chapter: Miss and Mr. Black


	5. Miss and Mr Black

A/N: I'm enjoying writing this much too much. Someone stop me. Just kidding, don't. Stop me and you die.

Miss and Mr. Black

The morning Mrs. Cole left for the family home in Scotland to attend Barry's funeral, Hermione was awoken by Tom Riddle poking her cheek.

Her eyes flew open. He stared back, gaze unnerving as always. "Morning," he whispered.

She sat up like a bolt of lightning, clutching her nightgown in surprise and looking between Tom and the door she was _sure _she'd locked the night before.

"The knobs are a little broken," he explained, as if reading her mind. "Locking the doors doesn't really stop anyone that really wants to get in."

She looked pointedly at him.

A grin swept across his small face. "I may have picked it," he said.

Hermione smiled.

"Come on, Ed!" he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her along. "Mrs. Cole is leaving this afternoon, and she made us pancakes for breakfast!"

The young woman motioned to her clothes and pointed to the small wardrobe in the corner of her room.

Tom nodded. "You need to change. Okay. I'll wait outside!"

He practically flew to the exit and slammed the door shut behind him. Hermione wished she could laugh, and opened her wardrobe.

The room Mrs. Cole had provided her with was twice the size of Tom's – which still wasn't very large, but it was an improvement. The afternoon of her employment, the elderly woman had taken Hermione into town to shop for some things she very much needed, and now she had two new dresses to wear around the orphanage. They still weren't clothes that she was particularly used to, but for the life of her she couldn't understand why they were strange.

So far, she had stayed with Mrs. Cole for nearly three days, and already the children had taken a shine to her. The youngest group, housing two toddlers and three four-year olds, couldn't really talk to her, and she could hardly talk back, but they got along, as Hermione made it a point to over exaggerate her actions.

The next group, all of whom were Tom's age and a little older, didn't pay much attention to her – Tom dominated her attention, and the other children seemed to exclude him. Hardly any of them were as good at reading as Tom, so Hermione had to resort to her best sign-language.

The older children, those in their tween and teens, seemed to like her well enough; they spoke to her and waited patiently for her written response, but tired of her quickly. It seemed they were all interested in how she had lost her memory and who she had been before she came to the Asylum. Having nothing to tell them, they remained kind to her, but weren't terribly interested in having long conversations.

Tom was becoming exceptionally good at knowing what Hermione was trying to say when she didn't have time to write it down, so most of the children asked him what she meant when they didn't understand her.

After the first two days, everyone but Tom and the oldest boy of the bunch had left her alone.

As she dressed, Hermione frowned – in fact, she had a feeling that the young man was going to become a little bit of a problem.

His name (as he'd informed her of many times) was Walter Leway, and he (as he'd informed her of many times) was nearly nineteen years of age.

And it was plain as day to everyone that he was interested in her.

Hermione sighed and finished buttoning up the front of her blue summer dress, ready to face the first day as the caretaker of the orphanage. Tom, true to his word, had been waiting outside for her. When she emerged, he stood a little taller.

"Let's go!" he said. "If we don't hurry, all the pancakes will be gone!"

She tucked her notepad and pen into her dress pocket and raced to the mess hall with Tom just a step ahead of her.

The children greeted her politely when she arrived at the doors, and she smiled kindly back. The young boy tugged at her sleeve. "Come on, let's find a place to sit-"

"Edith!" called a voice.

Had she been able to speak, she would have sworn.

"Over here! I saved you a spot!"

Grudgingly, she turned to see Walter at the table in the darkest corner, waving her over enthusiastically. Tom frowned. "I hate Walter," he mumbled as she followed the calls.

He wasn't hard to miss: Walter had very bright red hair, bordering on orange, and many freckles. Hermione tried in vain, for a moment, to pretend she didn't see him, but he stuck out just too much. With a little heave of breath, she motioned for Tom to follow her.

"I was beginning to think you didn't see me," he said, making just enough room for her to sit on the very edge. He noticed her young follower then, and blinked and grinned. "Morning, Tom!" he called cheerfully. "Do you want to sit over here today?"

Tom deliberately stood in front of her as he said, "Ed was going to sit with me."

"Well, _Edith _can sit with us both," he said. He motioned to the empty spot. "Cheers."

Hesitantly, she sat. Tom, realizing that with the current arrangements there was no room for him next to Hermione, bitterly sat across the table and glared at the stack of buttermilk pancakes.

"So you really have _no _recollection of your life before this, Miss Black?" asked Walter as she grabbed a pancake and placed it on her plate.

Hermione looked startled when he addressed her again, and shook her head.

"I think your name suits you," he informed her. "Edith is such a pretty name. You know, we're only a year apart, you and I. Both legal adults and whatnot."

Tom didn't seem to understand what exactly Walter was hinting at, but he did know trouble when he smelled it. Hermione rolling her eyes in annoyance seemed to magnify his suspicions.

"So, Edith," he began again, staring her down, "How do you feel about-"

"You've got syrup on your face, Walter," said Tom.

Hermione snorted.

Walter turned away to wipe at his cheeks. "Where is it? I can't feel it. Tom? Tom, where is it? Did I get it?"

"A little more to the right," said the boy lazily, now intently focused on cutting his breakfast into bite-sized pieces. He looked up at his friend slyly, and they grinned at each other.

After breakfast, Mrs. Cole emerged from her office to bid the children farewell for the remainder of the week, and to give some last-minute pointers to Hermione.

"Make sure if there's a problem with the children, you sort it out straight away," she hiccoughed.

The young woman frowned. _Mrs. Cole, have you been drinking again?_

"Nonsense!" she scolded, face flushed. "Now, Miss Black, you know Gene? Yes, the fourteen-year old girl. She needs to take a certain medicine every Tuesday and Friday after supper. The bottle is in my desk, you can – _hic_ – get it out using these keys."

She deposited a loud ring of them into Hermione's hands.

"Any questions?"

_I was wondering what I should do if there is an emergency, _she wrote.

"Oh, yes… Remember that kind Officer? I've left his number on the desk and told him to come here if he got a call from you. Just tap on the receiver a few times and he'll know who you are."

_Mrs. Cole, about Tom,_ she wrote slowly. _Would it be possible to make an adoption? He's told me how much he'd want to be adopted._

Mrs. Cole looked quite shocked for a moment, and Hermione did not know why. Then she chortled merrily, her laughs filling the hall. "Adopt Tom?" she asked. "Oh, gracious me! Why, he'd be Tom Black! Goodness, what a funny thing! Miss and Mr. Black!"

She never answered the question, but patted the young woman's shoulder and left laughing.

Hermione stood very confused and slightly frustrated in the entrance hall, clutching her notebook and pen.

"You're planning to adopt Tom Riddle?"

She spun around.

Walter leaned against the door of the mess hall, and it did not escape her notice that by doing so he was preventing anyone from coming out. She felt very small.

"You think you're ready to be a mother?" he asked. "Adopting him would make you a mum, wouldn't it? You're terribly young to be a mum…"

The sound of an engine starting in the yard roared in her ears and then slowly pulled away. Mrs. Cole was gone.

Walter, she realized as he approached, was very tall. She had been so used to looking down at Tom that the sudden presence of a man was overwhelming, and very nearly threatening. Hermione took a step back.

"You know," he whispered, "I think your name would sound a lot better if it was something like Edith Leway."

She clenched her teeth.

It was then that something odd happened. Walter tilted his head, and his orange hair fell into his face. He gazed through it at her in a very direct way. She felt like he was hinting at something she didn't quite understand.

"Or maybe another name would suit you better," he whispered. "How about…"

She held her breath.

He leaned closer.

She waited.

"…Potter?"

Fire was being dumped into her soul. For a few very confusing seconds, she felt warm from head to toe, and then a cold washed over her, icy like a frozen sea. It was so shocking that she staggered backwards, and Walter leapt forward to catch her.

For the first time, she noticed that just below his red, red hair, and above the freckles on his cheek, he was missing an ear.

"It should start to take affect soon," he whispered. "As early as this evening, if we're lucky."

Hermione would have screamed as the fiery sensation ripped through her muscle once again, but could not. Very suddenly, Walter looked very, very familiar, but for the life of her, all she could think about was red hair, the hole where his ear was, glasses, slit-like eyes, and a joke about feeling saint-like.

Then the sensation was gone in an instant, and anything she thought she recalled felt like a lie. She threw an accusing look at Walter and began scribbling furiously on her notebook. _What on earth have you done to me? _She demanded. _What was that?_

"Spoilers, love," he chuckled, and leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

In her shock, the pen and paper thudded to the floor.

Walter grinned. "Hope to see you soon," he said, and left up the stairs faster than she could blink. She stared after him, jaw hanging wide open.

From the door of the mess hall, which was open barely a crack, Tom Riddle watched in silence, frowning.

He had kissed her.

No one kissed Ed, he decided.

Especially not Walter.

He came out, walked to her, and gripped her hand. "Ed?" he asked. "What was that?"

She shook her head.

"I hate him," he complained. "I don't even remember when it was he came here… Has he always been here?"

She did not fail to notice the glazed look in his eyes. It was almost as if his memory had been… She shook herself. It was impossible. She reached for her paper and pen. _Mrs. Cole might be up for the idea of you being adopted, _she wrote.

He blinked. "Really?"

_She said we'd talk about it when she returns._

"That very morning?" he asked.

_Yes, Tom._

"You have to be here!" he said suddenly. "Promise me you won't go off anywhere!"

She smiled. _Where would I go, Tom?_

"Just promise me," he begged. "I don't know what happened to the other people that tried to adopt me once, but I don't want you to leave, too."

Her heart wrenched as he looked up at her. _I promise I won't leave, _she wrote.

He grinned shyly. "Good. What should we do now?"

Hermione nodded toward the door that led out to the yard.

Young Tom brightened up. "Are we going out to play?" he asked.

She smiled.

He was running to the mess hall in a second flat. "I'll tell the others!" he cried, shouting over his shoulder.

The smile faded as he vanished into the large room. Her hands, although it was hardly noticeable, were still shaking from her encounter with Walter. He scared her, and she didn't know why. But, she reminded herself, in just a few minutes everyone would be outside, and she could forget her problems in the quickly fading summer sun.

After all, now she had a promise to keep, and a person to think about. Everything would go back to normal quickly. She felt it.

That night, Hermione Granger dreamt of the Boy who Lived.

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Vacancy at the Orphan's Asylum

Next Chapter: The Diary


	6. The Diary

A/N: **Chapter warning**: there's some **mighty strong language** in this one. I'm talking offensive words and F-Bombs. I added this warning because this fic isn't rated M. Enjoy.

The Diary

"I know what you are," Malfoy called out to him.

Six steps down the changing staircase, Tom Riddle froze.

"I know what you've done," he continued, walking down to where the dark haired boy stood, stock still. "Did you think that because you fooled Professor Dumbledore and Headmaster Dippet that no one would catch on to your little game?"

He glared daggers into the floor as Malfoy circled him like a vulture.

"Come on, Tom," he whispered. "Surely you can't be serious."

The dark haired boy looked up at the shockingly blonde one, but did not speak.

His quite attitude did not seem to offset Malfoy at all. "Rubeus?" he asked. "Seriously? Rubeus Hagrid, the half-giant third year, the opener of the Chamber of Secrets?" Rather than laugh loudly at this absurd notion, he merely scoffed and circled again. "You're hardly older than he is. What's the difference, really, between someone thirteen and someone sixteen?" He smirked. "And what of the Mudblood?" he asked nonchalantly.

Tom stared at the shadows on the floor.

"Now that a student is dead, are you so confident that you can hide your identity much longer? What if I were to, say, let slip to Headmaster Dippet that I knew who _really _murdered that girl?"

Tom let out a single, low laugh, letting his eyes burn into Malfoy's as he came to a halt before him. "And what if I were to, say, let slip to the Parkinson's that I know who the culprit that raped their daughter is?"

Malfoy's already pale face went completely ashen as the smile slipped from his lips. "Careful, Riddle," he murmured, "You forget that I have your life in my hands, now. My father is a very powerful man. Staging your death as a suicide wouldn't be too difficult."

Tom grit his teeth.

"I want you to remember that the only reason you're still alive is because _I allow it_," Malfoy hissed into his ear. "Salazar Slytherin's last breathing heir? That's nothing. You can still be killed. I don't want you to forget that."

As Malfoy began his decent into the dungeons, Tom spoke out to him. "Abraxas," he called.

Malfoy turned to see Tom Riddle standing perfectly still, save for the continuous twisting of an old ring around his finger. "What now?" he asked, eying the ring warily.

"There's something I don't want _you _to forget," he said.

Malfoy waited.

Tom's fingers ceased twisting the ring, and very slowly, very sinisterly, a smile crept onto his lips. "You can never kill me," he whispered.

… … …

When he arrived at the bathroom, he knew he was alone, and made no hesitation out of smashing the mirrors with all he could.

"_Confringo_!" he yelled, and the glass shattered as the powerful gust of air and fire hit it. The ruined mirror did nothing to placate his anger. He next turned to the stalls. "_Deprimo_!" The doors blasted open and hit the back of the walls with very loud bangs. "_Bombardra!_"

The sinks cracked and shot water into the air.

"Damn it!" Tom screamed.

The slight gleam of the engraved snakes on the tap that he hadn't damaged caught the moonlight that drifted through the window. It gleamed, danced, made the snake look almost alive. The water from the sinks pooled around his feet. It was silent.

"_Open_," he hissed.

The sink dropped down into the floor and a dark, dark hole was left. Tom glanced around the bathroom once more, taking in the havoc and wreckage he'd created before walking briskly to the entrance of the Chamber of Secrets and jumping in.

Damn that Abraxas Malfoy – he didn't know anything.

The dark-haired boy landed on the pile of bones at the bottom of the drop and made his way to the sealed door without taking a breath.

That daft sod hadn't a clue what Tom had gone through to discover his identity. He hadn't a clue how horrible the Muggle world was, how awful growing up in that _place _had been, how heartbreaking it was to be sent home every summer, despite his pleas to remain at Hogwarts, where he wouldn't have to get his hopes up that someone might be waiting for him at the Orphanage…

"_Open,_" he snipped at the door.

Abraxas didn't understand how difficult it was. No one understood. Did he think Tom enjoyed all that had happened? Did he think that he'd reveled in the knowledge of the inferiority of his birth? He could have laughed: Imagine being proud to be Salazar Slytherin's Heir, the bastard half-blood son of a Muggle and a whore!

_Remember, Tom._

He froze, halfway to the great statue of his ancestor.

_You are different, and that's just fine._

His eyes darkened.

_Be proud of who you are. If you ever feel like that's a load of tosh, know that I'll be here to tell you that you are great._

The statue seemed to be staring at him.

_No matter who your parents are, you should be proud. And I'll stay right here. I won't leave you._

The basilisk slid slowly up from the water around the base of the statue, approaching with her yellow eyes shut and fangs sheathed inside her mouth. Tom watched the snake curl around a pillar next to him and rest her head close to his hands. He slowly dragged the tips of his fingers over the scales of her head. The subtle drip of rain from outside echoed in the pipes.

"Liar," he whispered.

… … …

"We have work to do," hissed Voldemort as he swept into the Slytherin common room.

Crabbe jumped to his feet and said, "My Lord, where have you been?"

"It is no concern of yours, and _how many times _need I remind you to call me by my given name at school? Do I make myself clear?" he asked.

The thick boy backed down.

"What would you have us do?" asked Nott, leaning leisurely against the wall next to the fireplace.

"Finally some sense out of one of you," Tom said. "Now listen closely because I'm only going to say this once."

Grus Crabbe, Alphard Black, and Leo Lestrange leaned closer, and Corvus Nott merely tilted his head.

"They've caught Slytherin's Heir," Tom informed them. "The attacks will stop from now on. Hogwarts isn't going to be shut down."

All three boys sighed and laughed in relief, and Nott blinked. "What else?" he asked.

"Always looking ahead, Nott," praised Tom. "We still have one year left until we graduate, and then we can begin our _real _work."

They nodded in agreement.

"But there is an…obstacle," he admitted.

Alphard Black moved a step closer. "What obstacle?"

He inhaled slowly. "Abraxas Malfoy."

They paused.

"He may plan to frame me for all that has happened, using my heritage as evidence," he explained. "Being thrown in Azkaban would be a flaw in my plans, wouldn't it?"

They nodded.

"So, how to take care of the problem?" he asked, leaving the question in the air.

Grus Crabbe scratched his head. "He's a seventh year, yeah?"

Leo Lestrange said, "Yes, and he's head boy. He might use that to his advantage. He knows each of us are friends with Lord – er, with Tom, so if he isn't sure how to pin the blame on him, then he might use us."

"Then we must avoid him," suggested Corvus. "The best way to stop conflict is to avoid it."

"I'm afraid it's too late for mere avoidance," said Tom. "We met earlier on the staircases. Abraxas made things…personal."

"He threatened you?" asked Alphard.

"I subdued him for now," he explained. "I'm not the only one with a secret to hide."

Corvus raised his brow a centimeter or so. "You've got something on Abraxas Malfoy."

It wasn't a question. Tom merely leaned back in the chair that Crabbe had cleared for him.

"What is it?"

A hush settled over the five boys as Iris Parkinson's elder brother, Zane entered the common room. He noticed them, nodded politely to Tom, and left into the fifth-year dormitory. The Riddle boy, his dark eyes fixed where the Parkinson brother had vanished, said, "If I told you, it wouldn't be much of a trump card."

Corvus only observed in silence.

"Alphard," said Tom, "Your brother, Cygnus, he's a Prefect, no?"

He paled at the mention of his brother. "My Lord, Cygnus is just a boy," he said.

"It's _Tom _at school, Alphard… Don't worry," Tom assured him. "I only need a small favor. Abraxas poses a threat to us," he explained. "He must either join us…or join no one. I need Cygnus to befriend him, convince him that ours is a worthy cause. Coming from the most Noble and Ancient House of Black, how could a mere Malfoy refuse him?"

Alphard bowed his head. "I'll talk to him," he promised.

Tom seemed to unfocus, his eyes blurring softly. "You're sure about what I asked you?" he murmured.

Crabbe and Leo seemed not to notice he had spoken – both were engaged in heated discussion on how to get Abraxas Malfoy to see reason. But Corvus heard, and looked in their direction. Alphard blinked. "You mean… that woman you asked me about?" he asked quietly.

Corvus leaned in to better overhear.

Tom growled, "What else have I asked you for since we met?"

"My Lord," Alphard whispered, "I thought I made it clear to you when we were first acquainted that I've never heard of her."

"Yes, but you're absolutely _certain_?" he pressed.

"I think this woman you met was just a Muggle, My Lord," he continued. "She isn't on our family tree. Edith Black is not a Witch."

Tom stood. "It's late," he said. "Tomorrow the news will have spread through the school. We've got to keep this on the down-low. Just unpack with everyone else and take your exams quietly. Nott, plan a meeting for us over the summer."

Corvus' raised eyebrow only climbed further, and he bowed deeply. "Of course, Tom."

The Riddle boy looked at his followers. "At least _someone _listens to what I tell them," he snapped, and swept into the dormitory.

They wouldn't follow him in for a while, he knew. Nott would keep them out. Crabbe and Leo could be thick. Loyal, but thick. Corvus and Alphard seemed to be the only ones with any sort of brain.

He sat down at his desk next to the four-poster bed and rummaged through the drawers. From the depths he pulled a book, plain black leather, slightly yellowed pages. The green quill resting near the ink pot trembled in anticipation. He picked it up, dipped it in the ink, and began to write.

_I miss her._

He paused.

_I hate her. The more and more I think about her, the less I recall her face. It's as if she never existed in the first place, as if Edith Black was the nightmare I made for myself to justify my contempt for Mudbloods._

He paused.

_But our time together was so very much like a dream. I don't think myself capable of creating a nightmare of such kindness._

Tom stared at the page, his quill-hand frozen, hovering above the parchment. He stared and stared, unmoving for a time he didn't care to acknowledge. A drop of black ink trembled at the point of the quill, clung on for dear life, and splashed to the page.

_I miss her. I miss that filthy Muggle slag._

Voldemort ripped the page from the diary and tore it to shreds, muttering profanities under his breath.

"Damn her," he hissed. "Damn her, that traitorous, dirty, _repulsive-!_"

The desk rattled as he smashed his fist into the wall.

"_Fuck_!" he yelled.

The world seemed to settle back into silence, and he bumped his fist against the wall again, half-heartedly.

"Fuck…"

How crazed he had been, when he met Alphard Black in their first year at Hogwarts and begged the boy to tell him if he knew Ed. How frantic he had been, to ask him to just double check his family tapestry when he went home for the holidays, over the summer, over Easter break, to just _make sure _she wasn't there.

How desperate Tom Riddle had been to secure the knowledge that the only person in the world to ever show him kindness was a Witch.

He threw the pieces of the page into the bin and waved his wand to burn the remains.

It had almost been eleven years since he's seen her. He couldn't even remember her face. He couldn't even remember if she was real. But, Tom promised himself as he closed his diary and put it away, if she was real, and if they passed each other in the streets, he would know her.

If she was real.

Tom glared.

He would find her.

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Miss and Mr. Black

Next Chapter: Memoirs of a Mudblood


	7. Memoirs of a Mudblood

A/N: Someone left an anonymous review requesting me to change Hermione's fake name. My answer: No. Please review so I know to continue or stop. This chapter took a long time to write. I'd appreciate the support.

Memoirs of a Mudblood

"Do you know why I've called you here, Tom?" asked Headmaster Dippet.

"No, Sir," he replied.

The previous portraits of the headmasters and mistresses buzzed in excitement, but Dippet was very calm behind his desk, old hands clasped together. "It is about your heroics in catching the monster," he informed him.

"The monster got away, sir," Tom reminded him. "It's Rubeus that I caught."

"Yes, yes, it's about that," he sighed. "It is regrettable that Rubeus'…pet escaped unharmed, but I have reached a decision as to what to do with our Mr. Hagrid."

"He'll be expelled, of course," Tom pressed.

Dippet nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, Tom, Hagrid will be expelled. Poor Myrtle's parents know a surprising amount of the weight of being expelled, despite being Muggles, and they've demanded they be present when his wand is snapped."

He waited.

"But he's just a boy, Tom," Dippet sighed. "It's tragic, what's happened at Hogwarts this year. He's so young – I don't believe he fully understood the weight of what he was doing, bring a creature like that out of the chamber."

Tom was shocked. "Sir," he said, "A girl is _dead_. Hagrid may be stupid, but he's no imbecile. He knew full well what breeding such a monster could mean!"

The old man's white eyebrows rose. "Breeding?" he asked.

He nearly slapped himself. "What if he's cultured it?" Tom amended. "What if there are more out there, and Hagrid has allowed – even _encouraged _– their existence?"

"My point, Tom," sighed Dippet, "is that Hagrid _will _be expelled."

The Dark Lord relaxed.

"…but we will not ask him to leave his home."

… … …

He stomped down the stairs, hands clenched and jaw set. He knew who was behind this, he could feel it in his bones.

Dumbledore sat in his office in the Transfiguration room, old wrinkled hands folded carefully on the desk, as if he'd known he would be found and was awaiting his fate patiently. "Ah, Tom," he said when the boy stormed inside. "I heard of your role in stopping the attacks. I daresay you shall receive some fame for this incident."

"Why is Rubeus Hagrid being allowed to stay at Hogwarts?" he demanded. "Sir, this is outrageous."

The older man's eyebrow rose slightly, speckled with bits of grey and white. "In what way?" he asked calmly.

Tom bristled. "He was hiding a giant spider in the castle, Professor," he asserted. "Students were attacked, one girl _died_!"

Dumbledore waited for him to finish.

"The creature was illegal, it's care was secret, people were hurt, and a mother lost a daughter forever, but Hagrid is being allowed to _stay a_t the grave of his classmate? Tell me, where is the logic in that?"

"Tom," said the Professor quietly, "I do not think I understand your problem. Hagrid was not the one that killed young Myrtle, nor did he attack the other students. It was the sole work of the monster of Slytherin."

Defensive words were about to rise from his lips about his Basilisk, but he bit them back and instead said, "The students won't see it that way, Sir! To them, Rubeus Hagrid is the one that allowed the creature to run free! They won't place blame on the monster, but on the man!"

Why didn't Dumbledore understand this?

"If Rubeus Hagrid remains at Hogwarts," he concluded, "He won't _be _happier – he'll be an outcast from the others, known forever as the bumbling idiot that murdered his classmate!"

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to twinkle in an odd way – his face remained passive, but his eyes were sad, determined, and, he thought, even a little touched. "Tom," began the old man, "Am I to believe that you are concerned for Hagrid's welfare?"

Voldemort froze. Concerned? For the half-giant? _Him? _It was absurd. It wasn't right. He…could he possibly be worried for him? Tom fought the mental battle fiercely; no. He wasn't concerned for the welfare of anyone. His mind worked quickly to amend the situation. "Sir, it makes no sense," he said. "Hagrid will be expelled, have his wand snapped, but remain here? Where is the logic in it?"

"My dear boy," sighed the Professor, "Rubeus has no family nor home to return to. If we toss him out, where will he go? This is his home, Tom, his home."

That was what enraged him most of all. The office went deadly silent, and he began to see red. His hands clenched tightly at his sides and his body began to tremble in quiet rage. "His home?" Tom Riddle whispered.

Dumbledore watched.

"He's not being made to leave because this is his…home?" The anger began to bubble over, encase him, boil his heart, smash his brain, tighten his throat, but the Dark Lord could not bring himself to yell any longer. He was so hurt and angry that his words were barely louder than a pin dropping. "I have no parents. I have no one waiting for me. No one has ever kept a promise to me my whole life, they all say they'll stay and then they leave, but this castle…this school is constant. It has never failed me. All I ask is to stay the summer, but Hagrid has the privilege to stay forever? Because it's his _home_?"

Understanding dawned on the Professor's face.

Tom whispered, trembling in rage, "Is this not _my _home, Sir?"

With a swirl of his robes, Voldemort stormed out of the office.

… … …

_1932_

_Who is Harry? _Hermione wrote on the last page of her notebook.

She glanced through the window where six-year old Tom was playing a game of hide-and-seek with the other children. He looked up from his hiding place (behind the large, coiled up garden hose) and caught her eye. He grinned and waved. Hermione smiled kindly back and returned to her paper.

_Harry, _she wrote. _HarryHarryHarryHarry who is Harry?_

She remembered him. His name and his face were all that came to mind. Hermione was surprised to find that she had been reminded of this Harry practically every day, but had passed it off as paranoia. Whenever she saw someone with glasses, she'd wondered why she had stared. Whenever Tom's straight hair got a little ruffled and refused to lie flat, she felt as if she'd had the same problem with someone else.

But it was green eyes that really got her.

Harry had all these things: spectacles, messy, messy hair, eyes the color of spring… And a thin scar, just off center his forehead, in the shape of a lightning bolt. A lightning scar, she mused.

_But who is Harry? _she wrote slowly. _And why have I only remembered him now?_

She entertained – very briefly – the notion that this had something to do with Walter. After just a moment, she shook herself and thought herself very silly; why on earth would this have _anything _to do with him? She thought about the strange name he had whispered to her, when her body was seized by fire and that same night she'd dreamt of the boy with glasses.

What name had it been?

_Potter_.

She wrote it carefully.

_Potter. Potter, Harry. Harry Potter._

Such a common surname, she mused. No wonder it felt so familiar to her – half of England had that name. Perhaps Harry was a celebrity she'd been fond of before her memory leaked, and maybe Potter was the name of her neighbors.

It was silly to blame Walter for invoking this memory. She hadn't even spoken to him since the night before, and she felt he was keeping his distance. Hermione sighed, a headache starting to pierce her temples. To give herself a break from the brain-wrenching, she peeked back through the window into the yard.

Tom hadn't been caught, yet.

The other children were all out in the open. Dashing about and calling for him. It did seem odd to her that he hadn't been found – the hose was coiled up tall enough for a small child to crouch behind, but it wasn't the best of spots to hide.

She watched as Molly, a girl a year younger than he, approached the hose pile. Hermione smiled, expecting Tom to be caught and come out from his spot, a little upset he was found but ecstatic he had won.

Molly twisted her braids as she neared. Then she paused. Hermione frowned. Wasn't she going to call out that she'd found him?

Then something odd happened – Molly turned away from the coil, a vacant look in her eyes, and scurried away. The young woman blinked. Perhaps she'd heard a sound elsewhere?

Then another child approached Tom's hiding spot, and she felt confident that he would surrender, now. This boy was a few years older, and he was the best at hide-and-seek at the Orphanage.

After a moment, he too turned most unnaturally and searched elsewhere.

She was baffled. Were the children ignoring Tom? Or were they all in on a secret prank, to pretend they couldn't find him? It couldn't be – they were still calling out for him, double checking places and overturning the picnic blanket. They all seemed genuinely annoyed they couldn't find him.

And there was Tom, crouched behind the coil, waiting to be discovered.

She was quite suddenly unnerved.

This was strange.

This was very strange.

"What's that on your arm?"

She jumped out of her seat and spun away from the window. Walter grinned cheekily at her from the doorway and scratched around the hole where his ear was not.

"A scar?" he asked lightly.

She looked down at the faint tracing of words that had been scratched into the pink skin of her forearm. It had been there since she woke up, nearly two months ago, and to say she hadn't been curious about it was a lie. Usually it was covered by the long sleeves of her dress, but she had pushed them above her elbows to write with more ease.

Walter tilted his head to see it better. "Are those words?" he asked. "What does it say? Mud…" He trailed off. The grin slipped from his face and he looked up at her.

Hermione felt her face heat up, and she yanked her sleeve over the scar.

Walter said nothing, and she knew he had read it.

_Mudblood._

It was a word that didn't mean much to her. She couldn't recall ever hearing it, but it still said loads.

Someone, somewhere, maybe even _herself_, Hermione realized, thought she had dirty blood. And this notion had been so insulting to them, so revolting, that it had been carved into her flesh. Still, the word hardly meant a thing to her.

Walter said quietly, "Is that where…?"

She blinked.

He was smiling again, eyes fixed on her face. "Sleep well?" he asked cheerfully.

Harry's face flashed in her mind, and she frowned. Maybe her dream did have something to do with him. It was so improbable that it almost seemed plausible…

"Edith, I wanted to ask you something," Walter said.

She waited.

"Are you really going to adopt Tom?"

She flipped to a blank page and wrote, _I'm planning on it._

After he read it, he said, "Yes, okay, but why?"

_What do you mean?_

"Why do you want to adopt him?"

_I don't think that's any of your business, _she scrawled coldly.

Walter shrugged. "I'm curious. My mum, you see, she actually considered adoption once."

Hermione stared at him.

"Before she…uh, died," he finished lamely. "But she said that she wanted to give a child a home. Love them like her own flesh and blood."

_How old were you when your mother died? _She asked.

"Oh, 'round twelve, I s'pose," he said half-heartedly waving his hand in the air as if it didn't matter. "But about Tom – I'm not sure if you'd fancy adopting him."

Hermione scowled. _Why on earth not?_

"This is between you and me," he said, suddenly standing close enough to whisper in her ear, "But Tom's always been a little…odd."

Her eyes fluttered to the window. The game of hide-and-seek was over. The children were playing tag now, and she cursed herself for missing how it had ended.

"I want you to be careful, Edith," whispered Walter. "Sincerely, I do. If you go too I-"

He stepped back, grin on his face.

"Just think about it," he advised. "Can you really take care of him? He's old enough to be your little brother, so I wouldn't advise taking on a motherly role. Tom sees you more as a friend, anyway."

She shook her head to say 'what do you mean?'.

The orange haired boy laughed. "Oh, Edith dear, I really can't understand you when you don't write it out!"

She grimaced.

"I'm on my way out," he informed her. "I'm leaving."

It was then that she noticed the dirty canvas bag stuffed with his possessions lying at the doorway.

"Come find me sometime," he advised. "I'm sure you'll want some questions answered in a few days, anyway."

_You're leaving the Asylum? _She wrote.

He stepped back after reading and hoisted the bag over his shoulder. "For good," he affirmed. "Trust me, I hope I _never_ come back to this place… Too depressing, for my taste."

He started walking away and then paused, as if on second thought.

"Oh, I left you something in your room," he said. "It might help a bit. You _will _come find me once you need something, won't you?"

She wrote very large, _WHY WOULD I POSSIBLY NEED TO FIND YOU?_

Walter Leway grinned yet again, and said quietly, "Don't you want to know who Harry Potter is?"

He was gone.

Hermione raced around the corner to catch him as he left the building, but he had completely vanished, evaporated, been spirited away. Her heart beat quickly in fear, confusion, and excitement. How did he know? How could he have possibly known?

She could have gasped – what was she going to tell Mrs. Cole?

Walter was gone.

An idea struck her, and she skipped up the steps to the second floor. He said he'd left something in her room. It must be an address, she figured, so she could find him. She would find him and convince him to come back before Mrs. Cole returned. Everything about this went against her better judgment. The boy was clearly messing with her. He knew how she would react to this, and now she was playing right into his hands, she felt it.

But she had to know.

The door to her room flung open, and Hermione spotted Walter's present sitting atop the pillow on her bed immediately. It was no address.

It was a diary.

She froze.

It was a plain black leather-bound diary with slightly yellowed pages. She took it in her hands and leafed through the pages.

It was a blank diary.

How could this help? Not a single word had been written in it. Hermione was confused and scared. Maybe Walter knew her before? She entertained the idea that he had known her and was trying to help her memory return…

But he'd been here for year. There wasn't time for him to know who she was. Frustrated, she gripped her pen tightly and wrote in the middle of the first page, _Damn_.

The ink was sucked into the page.

Hermione dropped the book in shock and stumbled back.

She had seen wrong. She must have seen wrong. It wasn't possible. The diary loomed on the floor. She inched closer and nudged it open. The ink was gone. She flipped a page, but it hadn't bled through. Maybe, she reasoned slowly, her pen was out of ink, and that was the problem.

She inspected the paper again, but there was no impression where she had written. Her hands shook.

Hermione Granger wrote again.

_Hello_

One moment the word was there, and she exhaled in relief. Then the ink faded again, and the fear seized her heart. What sorcery was this? Something of an even more alarming caliber caught her attention when more words faded into being, dark and black against the yellow page.

_Who are you?_

She stared. This book was evil, she decided. Demonic, enchanted, otherworldly, it wasn't normal!The words the book produced vanished slowly back into the page.

Her knuckles were white from clenching the pen. She wrote slowly. _Edith Virginia Black._

They, too, disappeared, and more formed. _Who are you? _The book asked again.

She didn't understand. None of this made sense. The diary's words left and she considered her options. Her name hadn't fixed the problem. Who was she? She couldn't answer.

Walter's final words to her nagged at the back of her mind, but she ignored it.

_I'm Edith, _she wrote.

_Who are you? _The diary asked again.

The temptation was maddening. Walter left this. Walter gave her a name. She knew doing this was mad. Hermione hesitated, brought her pen to the page, and wrote, _I am Harry Potter_.

The pages all exploded with ink, words filling the empty spaces faster than light, and she tried to scream. The book dropped from her hands and thudded shut to the cold floor. It lay still.

Hermione swallowed and snatched it up again, opening to the first page one last time.

The diary was full.

Scrawled on the inside cover were the initials _H.G_. Hermione was terrified out of her mind over this book, but she still managed to think that, rationally, these memoirs were somehow related to her, or Walter, or to no one. Rationally, she was insane and should burn this magic hell-book straight away.

Rationally, this was mad.

Hermione bit her lip and carefully read the first line:

_May 2nd, 2000_

_ Harry Potter is dead._

A/N:

Previous Chapter: The Diary

Next Chapter: Eleven Years (and Counting)


	8. Eleven Years (and Counting)

A/N: Installment eight. Enjoy. Please review, if possible. Share the fic with your friends, if they're into this kind of stuff. If you have no friends, share it with your pet. If you have no pet, I'm sorry – I can't help you.

Eleven Years (and Counting)

Four months had passed since he had left for his penultimate year at Hogwarts. Four months seemed like a very, very long time to him; but as Tom Riddle stood on the snow-covered porch of his childhood prison, he felt four decades wouldn't have been enough.

For the first time, he had come back for the holidays.

In fact, every Hogwarts student had been required to return to their homes this year, so they could clean up after the mess the Chamber of Secrets incident had left.

Well, every student but Hagrid.

The only satisfaction Tom gleaned from this situation was the knowledge that one of the things they would be sorting out was snapping Hagrid's wand.

He sighed. It wasn't nearly satisfying enough, but it would have to do.

"Tom Riddle, is that you?!" cried a slurred voice from inside.

He cringed – scratch that, it would not do _at all._

Mrs. Cole blundered out into the snow without any socks on and pulled him into a ferocious bear-hug. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming home for Christmas?!" she cried. "After all I've done to persuade you over the summers!"

The sixteen year-old detached himself from the woman's grip as speedily as he could, and forced himself to smile in a very charming way. "I thought I'd surprise you!" he lied, grinning.

Mrs. Cole seemed to have just realized that she was standing in snow without shoes on, and said, "Let's hurry inside, shall we?"

Merlin, he hated this place.

"I'm so glad you've come home for Christmas!" she cried, patting his back enthusiastically. He smiled widely at her and nodded.

"Me too, Mrs. Cole. It's good to see you."

Thank God, the old bat left him alone (most likely to run off to her office and finish her bottle of gin) to his own devices, spewing nonsense of how they would catch up in the morning, and how all the other children would be _so _glad to see him.

He climbed the stairs he hated and marveled at how much his attitude had changed with regards to interacting with others. When he had been a child, he had spoken to no one. Once he had discovered that he was a wizard, his social interactions had completely changed. He had to thank Dumbledore for that, unfortunately. Seeing his wardrobe burst into flame was both humiliating and eye-opening.

Before, everyone had feared and ignored him. Now he was everyone's friend, and had charmed every living thing under the sun.

Except Dumbledore, of course. Tom had a very strong notion that the old codger knew his charisma was mostly fake, and refused to buy any of his bullshit. Unfortunate, he thought – the old man would have made a very powerful ally.

Not much time passed before it was dark outside, and at the stroke of midnight, he took action.

Mrs. Cole was snoring when he crept down the stairs. The sound rattled his skull and he had to refrain from crinkling his face in disgust. The woman never had held her liquor well, but refused to take up a new habit. Now that she was knocked cold, however, it made it much easier for Tom to sneak down the hall and to the back door.

As much as he hated to admit it, the yard in the back held a lot of memories for him. The door, he remembered, was always locked at night – but even when he was a child it had been no big obstacle, and for sixteen year-old Riddle it was cake.

The door swung open and he quickly passed over the threshold and into the frigid night, where snow drifted quietly to the dusted earth. As he was about to leave, he turned to look up at his old room window.

Tom Riddle had been moved to a larger room when he turned nine. The smallest space in the building no longer belonged to him. Now he could breathe.

He realized, as he gazed up at the dark glass, that he was standing on the exact spot of earth where Barry Cole had died. For a single moment, he imagined their roles reversed: Barry was up at the window, gazing down on him. Tom's eyes met the dead man's, and they regarded each other coldly.

"Was it you?" asked the apparition. "Did you do this to me?"

Tom whispered, "I'll never tell," and the vision dissolved as he turned on the spot.

_Crack_

"Where have you been?" Corvus asked the moment he appeared.

"Merlin, Nott," breathed Voldemort, "I just got away, give me a moment!"

Corvus looked at his head. "You've got snow in your hair," he pointed out.

Tom brushed the cold flakes from his dark locks and said, "Is everyone here?"

"Grus and Leo arrived a half-hour ago," he said. "Alphard and I came together. We've been waiting for you."

"Where are they?" he asked, and glanced around the cottage.

It was a small space; a single room filled with boxes and broken furniture that had been shoved haphazardly against walls to make room for the table in the center. There was hardly any room to move around. Voldemort's throat tightened.

"Outside," Corvus informed him. "They're standing guard."

"What about the others?" he asked.

The blonde boy glanced around and lowered his voice significantly. "My Lord," he whispered, "are you sure about this? We would follow you to the ends of the earth, but if he suspects-"

"He _won't _suspect a thing, Nott," Tom hissed. "Be careful to call me Tom when they arrive. Things could get messy if one of you has a…slip of tongue."

He inclined his head in a bow. "Yes, Tom."

The door creaked open at that very moment, and Crabbe, Leo, and Alphard entered, cheeks flushed from the cold. "We heard voices. It's been a while, My Lord."

"It's _Tom_, Crabbe, how many times-?!" he snapped.

"Sorry…"

"Just remember it for when they arrive. This needs to go well. Do all of you hear me? This _has _to go well."

They all nodded, and Tom relaxed.

"I can hardly believe we're here, though," whispered Alphard. "Can you believe it? We're actually going to meet him."

"Stay focused," Corvus advised. "Like Tom said, this has to end well. Or he might not let us leave again."

Crabbe swallowed.

With everyone inside, and all the clutter in the room, it seemed a lot smaller. Tom cleared his throat. "I'm going to wait outside," he announced.

"It's so cold out there," said Alphard.

"It's too stuffy here," Tom said. "Why not vanish the furniture and boxes while we wait? They take up more than half the floor space, anyway. We want our guests to be comfortable."

Crabbe and Leo started straight away. Tom turned on his heel and strode out the door, Alphard and Corvus right behind.

"What are you planning to do out here?" Alphard asked.

"I'm getting fresh air," Tom said, rolling his eyes. "I'll be fine, Alphard. Go help those two – they seem to mess up everything they touch."

Black and Nott shared a glance that the Dark Lord did not miss, and the former returned inside. Corvus ignored the call for help from the three, and instead stayed with Tom, just outside the door.

The dark-haired boy stared deep into the trees. "It isn't snowing here," he whispered. "It's snowing in London."

Corvus blinked. "Tom," he growled, "Are you absolutely _sure_?"

"Nott, I thought I told you-"

"I don't like it, Tom!" he hissed. "This plan is suicide! What are we supposed to do, if he finds you out? I don't know if I can protect you from him."

"I don't _need _protection from him, Corvus," the Dark Lord pressed. "He'll be here any minute. Your loyalty is…inspiring. But remember, Nott, no matter how much you think otherwise, from now your loyalty lies with him."

Nott clenched his jaw. "You're such a mystery. We trust you enough to give you our lives, but why do you disclose nothing with us?"

Tom looked away. "You'll understand one day, Corvus," he murmured. "One day…"

There were several loud bangs just beyond the tree line, where the pines settled into darkness. The boys whipped out their wands and were joined seconds later by the other three, all of whom were armed.

"Wasn't that them?" asked Crabbe, voice trembling. "We shouldn't be aiming at them if it was,"

"Shut up, Grus," hissed Alphard. "If it isn't them, do you want us to die without our wands?"

"Quiet," whispered Tom.

They stilled.

"I admire your courage and will, Tom Riddle," a deep voice sounded from the trees, "But I'd put your wands away, for your own safety."

The other four lowered their weapons immediately, but Tom didn't budge. "What are you here for?" he called out. His palms were sweaty, and the grip on his wand was difficult to hold.

The deep voice chuckled, inhaled, and said, "For the Greater Good."

It was only when Gellert Grindelwald emerged from the darkness and smirked that Tom lowered his wand. "Forgive me," he said, eying the two very muscular men that stood on either side of the man. "It was not courage that had me aim at you, but caution."

Grindelwald was an older man, this Tom knew – but no older than Dumbledore, and certainly no less potent. He had little doubt that one wrong move would result in the death of him and his companions. Truth be told, his influence was compelling. Riddle was envious of his power.

One thing that was undeniable was the sharpness in his eyes. "So," said Grindelwald, "You are the one that summoned me?"

Tom stood taller. "Yes."

"You wish to join me?" he asked. "You and your friends both?"

"Yes."

"And what's to stop me from believing that you're working for Albus Dumbledore?" he asked. "What's to stop me from interrogating you and torturing you into insanity until you're killed?"

Tom's fingers found his ring, and he twisted it around his finger. "With all due respect," he began, "You can't kill me."

Grindelwald's sharp eyes looked down at his ring, and then snapped back up to his face. The two men by his side looked outraged, and he was willing to bet that behind him, Crabbe, Leo, Alphard, and Nott were shaking in fear.

The man smiled. "Is that so?" he whispered. "Would you care to show me your secret to eternal life?"

He gulped. "I'm afraid that's why it's called a secret."

For a long moment, Tom thought he had failed – had he been wrong that confidence was the best way to earn the man's favor? He was nervous. What if it hadn't worked, Grindelwald was unimpressed, and he had just sentenced his friends to die outside an obscure cottage in Ireland? What if he had been wrong?

Then Gellert extended his hand. "You've done well in securing a location," he said. "I trusted you from the beginning. I would never go to meet someone in the wilderness unless I was absolutely certain I would not be ambushed by the Ministry's men. You _are_ aware of how high the price on my head is?"

The boy eyed his outstretched hand in dismay. "You shake hands with just anyone?" he asked. "I could have anything up my sleeve."

"You don't," Grindelwald concluded with a sinister smirk. "I already checked."

The two darkest wizards of all time shook hands, and the moon passed overhead.

… … …

Tom Riddle was back at the Orphanage, pacing room.

The meeting with the dark wizard had gone well. Almost _too_ well. It seemed too good to be true that such a powerful man had listened to what someone like he had to say, accepted it, and offered him a position in his ranks.

He was working for Gellert Grindelwald.

For the Greater Good.

More fresh air was in order. He seized his cloak, which he had tossed onto his nightstand, and whirled towards the door.

_Thud._

A glance over his shoulder showed him his diary had been flung to the floor. It landed on the binding and had fallen open to a blank page. Tom sighed and reached down to pick it up.

_Damn._

He blinked. Had he written that? After a moment, the word faded into the yellowed pages of his black, leather-bound diary.

He was mad.

_Hello_

The word appeared on the page a few moments later, and Tom dashed to his trunk. He threw all the contents onto the wooden floor and dug through the socks, bottles, books, and papers until he found a quill and inkpot.

The sharp end dipped into the black ink, and Tom wrote three words feverishly on the page.

_Who are you?_

He waited. There was nothing. Voldemort flipped the page to see if the words had soaked through, but it was clean. When he flipped back his question was gone. Tom stared.

Seconds passed in agonizing slowness, and then dark words began to bleed onto the page.

_Edith Virginia Black._

It wasn't true.

What magic was this? His first thought was that someone had tampered with his diary to exploit his weakness. The possibility was ruled out faster than he could blink, because of all the people in the Wizarding world, Alphard Black was the only one he'd told about her.

About Ed.

His eyes snapped to the page. The last letters of her name faded into the page, and Tom roared. "No!" he cried, clawing at the paper, somehow willing the ink to remain. But her name was gone. He wrote feverishly.

_Who are you?_

It had to be a lie. Eleven years. Eleven long years, and nothing! Not a word! He had begun to think she really was a figment of his imagination. The fact that he couldn't recall her face was proof enough for that. A strange woman with no face who couldn't talk? How could she be real?

Ed.

_His_ Ed.

That woman, that person, that _thing _had been his childhood. If she had been real, she was a Muggle. She was a filthy Muggle, and he cursed himself for allowing his heartbeat to speed at the thought that she was alive.

She was here, somewhere. She was in his diary.

But it was impossible.

For the final time, Tom gripped his quill and wrote slowly, deliberately, daring the entity to lie one more time. _Who are you? _

He waited. Breathed shallow and quick, he was feeling light headed but still dared not move. Seconds passed. Then minutes. There was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Voldemort screamed in rage and launched the book against the wall. It wasn't nearly gratifying enough, but it calmed his anger enough for him to see reason: That was right – there was no way that was really her. It was impossible. It was either someone playing tricks with him, or he was insane.

Tom had gone mad.

He watched the blank page of the diary for a few minutes more before shoving it at the bottom of his trunk and piling all his belongings on top of it. Why was he so obsessed with this woman, anyway? In eleven years he had gone from being six to nearly seventeen. His birthday was on the eve of the new year, and then he would be an adult in the eyes of the Wizarding world. _His _world.

How old would she be, now? If she was even real? Thirty-one, he calculated. Even if she was real and he did manage to remember her face, she would have changed so much that he wouldn't recognize her.

But what was this magic?

He glanced at his shut school trunk, and was tempted to take out the diary again. Tom almost gave in.

Almost.

"Don't do this to me," he whispered, eyes on the trunk. "I can't be distracted. Don't do this, Ed." Voldemort's eyes flashed red. "I'm busy with Grindelwald."

His seventeenth birthday passed in peace.

Eleven years since she'd vanished.

And counting.

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Memoirs of a Mudblood

Next Chapter: Error 404 Does Not Exist


	9. Error 404 Does Not Exist

A/N: I assume you've all seen the news. Hate or love me as you will, but I never LOVED Ron and Hermione. They were great, but something just didn't sit right about them with me. Enjoy the ninth installment of Child's Play.

Error 404 Does Not Exist

_1943, Chernobyl, Ukraine_

"Muggles," began Grindelwald, "Are to be ruled over."

The crowd of men and women grumbled in general agreement.

The Dark Wizard tucked his hands behind his back, almost thoughtfully, and strode slowly across the stone floor and back again, past the blazing pile of what Tom thought had once been books. To further prove his theory, the man waved his wand and a worn novel with a dark cover rose into the air, hovering near his head as he walked. "This is what Muggles do," he explained.

Tom watched in silence while the crowd prattled.

"They spin lies, tell stories that are false, made up, fake. These are for those who do not have the greater knowledge in their lives," Grindelwald continued. "This… _thing _is a poison, a wrong that must be righted. Would you have your son or daughter fill up their head with nonsense, ideas of a world where great Muggle machines tromp about? A world where Magic is available to all, Pureblood or no? A place where no magic exists at all?!"

The faceless host of numberless bodies cried loudly in outrage, brandishing their wands and gnashing their teeth.

Grindelwald's voice boomed over the scattered piles of fire, broken homes, and echoed over the mountains as snow swirled around them. "Would you have your child think that there is happiness beyond our history?!" he yelled. "Would you have them believe that life could be better without the gifts we were granted?! No!"

The battalion howled.

"Great liars!" he bellowed, "are NOT great magicians! They are only great fools!"

They called out.

"Imbecilic!"

They boomed.

"Cretins!"

They roared.

The Dark Wizard did not continue. Tom could feel the tension in the air press around them as they waited for him to say more, but he did not. The thick curtain of snow was nearly blinding. Thousands of breaths froze as they left their master's lips and faded into the dark sky.

Grindelwald stopped pacing, and the multitude fell silent. The only sound that filled the night was the crackling of the angry flames against the brittle pages of fiction. He reached out and grasped the suspended book in his palm, crushing the binding with surprising strength.

"Muggles!" he screamed, "Are! Liars!"

Not a soul moved.

"What do we do with liars?!" He grinned, and Tom felt ice run down his spine. "We do with them as they did with us in the days of old!"

The book arched into the sky and hung, for a silent moment, suspended in the air. Then it fell, down and down, and erupted in the flames of the pyre.

"_Burn them_!"

The crowd cheered.

Grindelwald extended his arms to either side, as if embracing his friends. "FOR THE GREATER GOOD!"

"The Greater Good!" they cheered. "The Greater Good!"

"We will be a world power, or we will be nothing at all!"

With this, Tom observed as book after book of Muggle fiction flew through the air, over his head and into the many burning piles, where it's ash and soot grave awaited it. Strange, he thought, they all flew by so quickly, it was odd that he could clearly see some of the titles as they moved.

_The Red Pony, Sense and Sensibility, Crime and Punishment, Mary Poppins, The Great Gatsby, Their Eyes Were Watching God…_

Tom was apprehensive to even think that he'd read some of them.

By his side, covered in snow, Corvus and Alphard glanced at each other and then at him for guidance. His dark eyes met those of his friends, and stiffly, he nodded.

They reached into their pockets and withdrew books of their own, tossing them into the fire. "This isn't right," whispered Alphard.

Tom seized the front of his robes and yanked him close. "Don't say that here," he growled into Alphard's ear. "Don't even think it. Just do what they do."

His tall friend nodded mutely.

Voldemort took out a book of his own, and faced the pyre. He stared at the black leather binding for a moment longer than he wanted, and was tempted to flip through the pages that he'd barely filled.

This was his history. This diary was the deepest and darkest secrets of his heart, ones that he could and would not even share with Alphard or Corvus. Some he could not even admit to himself.

He poised his arm, raised slightly above his head, and tried to aim. It was then, from several rows of people in front of him, that his eyes caught those of his leader.

Gellert Grindelwald stared Tom down, his sharp gaze unsettling and unwavering.

Oh, did he waver.

His hand trembled, shook, and right as he was sure he was going to toss it into the flames and let the only piece of himself that he cared for burn, Corvus caught his wrist.

The spine slid out of his palm, and a colder one replaced it. He whirled around to look at his friend, and Corvus blinked, a very faint smile lining his mouth. "I never liked Pride and Prejudice, anyway," he explained, and pocketed the diary.

Tom turned, aimed, and shot the book to its doom. After seconds it was ablaze, and he stared straight at Grindelwald, who had a smile on his lips that the boy couldn't place.

He had done his part.

"Let's go," he whispered, and they walked from the bright square.

… … …

By summer, the news had spread through the Wizarding network that Grindelwald was on a fast rise to power, and fear shook the entire world. It had been several months since the book-burning night in Chernobyl, and the terror hadn't stopped there.

Although the Embassy of European Magic had stepped in at the last moment and rectified the whole messy situation, not all Muggles could be found and have their memories fixed, and now there were murmurs about witchcraft floating around cities Grindelwald had visited.

Rumors in Amsterdam.

Whispers in Hamburg.

Speculation in Debrecen.

Grindelwald was everywhere, and the Ministry was going mad running in circles to prevent the exposure of the magical world.

People had begun to disappear, vanish in the night. And through all of this, Tom Riddle kept his mouth firmly shut.

The Hogwarts Express sounded loudly as it pulled away from Hogsmead station, the smoke from the exhaust pipe at the top blocking the boy's view out the window.

Leo fiddled with his hands. "My Lord," he began quietly, glancing shyly up at Tom, "Shouldn't you be in the Prefect's compartment?"

"We're only leaving Hogwarts one more time, Leo," he said, gazing through the clouded glass. "I'd like to stay with you."

They sat in silence for several minutes before Crabbe spoke up. "Things aren't going to be the same again, are they?" he asked.

No one answered him.

Alphard, who sat next to Tom, shuffled his feet. "What is our next plan of action, My Lord?"

"Something we mustn't discuss in a train compartment," he growled.

Corvus sat between Leo and Crabbe on the opposite side, and crossed his legs. "I think we all need to talk about what happened in February."

Tom tore his eyes from the window and grimaced at his blonde friend. "Here?" he asked. "Now?"

Nott shrugged. "It needs to be done."

"Fine," growled the Dark Lord. "Let's _talk_. What do you want to say?"

"Tom," he started, "Chernobyl was the initiation night. Burning that book was your baptism. If he doubted you before at all, now Grindelwald trusts you. We're all a part of his movement."

"Is that all you wanted to say?" he snapped.

Corvus opened his mouth to retaliate, but sighed instead. "We're all ready to proceed," he said wearily. "If we can only get into Grindelwald's highest ranks, you can shape the world you've dreamed of. What is holding you back?"

The other boys sat in anticipation, expecting their Lord to lash out, or to at least remain silent. Corvus noticed the knowing look in Alphard Black's eyes, and wondered for a moment why he looked so concerned.

"…I have to find her," Tom growled.

The train wheels spun loudly over the tracks. "Who?" Crabbe whispered.

"It's Edith, isn't it?" Alphard shot.

Nott sat up.

"I don't want to talk about this!" Tom argued.

"Who is Edith?" asked Leo.

"This woman," Alphard said quickly, "She's been driving Tom mad since before we met-!"

"Black!" Tom roared.

"She's a Muggle!" Alphard cried. "She's not even a witch, and he's never mentioned her to any of you because he's ashamed to be so obsessed with such a filthy Muggle wh-!"

Voldemort had his yew wand digging into Alphard's throat before he could finish, the boy's back pressed against the compartment door.

Leo, Corvus, and Crabbe watched in silent horror.

"_Never_," the dark-haired boy hissed, "_speak of her like that again._"

Alphard trembled in a combination of fear and awe; this was why he followed his Dark Lord. The outward charisma, the power and respect he commanded when they were alone. Tom Riddle was an influential man.

Voldemort shoved his friend aside and slammed the door shut behind him, stowing his wand into his robes as he walked briskly up the hall. So angry, he had been, so blinded by rage, that he hadn't noticed his threat to Alphard had been given in Parseltongue.

The four boys that had been left behind didn't move for a very long while. Alphard slid into a seat and steadied himself with his hands. He looked very ashen, indeed. Although he hadn't understood what Tom had said, he read the message loud and clear.

Corvus was the first to speak. "I never knew," he said. "I guessed… I thought there was something you two weren't sharing with us… But I didn't know it was this."

"Does," stammered Crabbe, "Does he… love her? This Muggle?"

"Don't be thick," Alphard snapped. "She was a woman that he knew for a few weeks when he was six."

"How does that mean he didn't love her?" Corvus whispered. "There's more than one type of love in the world."

They contemplated this for a long, thoughtful moment. Then Black sighed. "There's more to this story than you know," he explained. "Our Lord doesn't…love. You know he doesn't. The closest thing to love he can get is obsession."

"You're saying obsession isn't a form of love?" Leo whispered.

They considered this, too. "Look," Alphard murmured, "Tom has been begging me to find her since we met. From what he's told me, she was a woman that appeared in his life one day, treated him with respect, and nearly became his mother. Then as suddenly as she came, she vanished. Like smoke."

"Why would he ask you to find her?" Crabbe questioned.

"Her name is Edith Black," he explained. "He thought she might be a relative of mine. I checked my family registry and tapestry over and over, every summer, every holiday, but never once did I find her. Tom was so desperate for her to be a witch."

"So she's a Muggle, then," Corvus said. "Why does this make her such a huge presence? If he really wanted to find her, couldn't he dig into who knew her more? Find where she stayed? Ask around?"

Alphard sighed. "Look," he said, "I checked in the Muggle world, too. Okay? I wanted so badly to find this lady for him that I actually spent an entire summer in London, finding clues, talking to people, looking through records. Do you know what I found?"

They shook their heads.

"Nothing."

"That doesn't make sense," complained Leo.

"It _does_," he insisted. "It means that Edith Black was a figment of our Lord's imagination. She never existed at all."

They thought in silence for a few minutes, watching the wilderness fly past the window.

Corvus inhaled. "He knows it, doesn't he?"

They looked toward him.

Nott's eyes softened. "Tom knows she doesn't exist."

"No," whispered Alphard. "He truly thinks she's real. Out there, somewhere. It's what's holding him back. She's the reason he can't move forward with the plan."

The train chugged forward.

"But what if she does exist?"

They all thought what they couldn't say: if Edith Black existed, then she must be found. There was no other way around it.

Tom Riddle wrote in his diary in a different compartment with hurried, nervous strokes.

_You were real, _he scrawled. _I know you were. I saw you, felt you, you were REAL. Write back, Ed._

He waited.

_Write back!_

There was nothing but his words on the page.

_You were in my diary before and you could still be there! Write to me!_

Tears of furry stung his eyes, and Tom was shocked at the revelation he received about himself. He had ignored his diary for months ever since the Christmas break, and had even tried to burn it in Chernobyl, but he couldn't. Not any longer. If his Ed could be reached through this book, he had to try.

_Write back!_

Nothing.

_Write back!_

Funny, he thought.

It had never hurt before.

The ink vanished from the page. Tom held his breath. For the longest time, he stared at the blank page and waited. The ink was gone. This is what had happened in December. He trembled, a mass of emotion flowing in him, both positive and negative. Confusion, malice, anticipation, nervousness, and the one he hated most of all: hope.

Black slowly seeped onto the yellowed page of his diary.

_I_

He read it.

_am_

His tears splashed to the page.

_Edith._

"Oh, my God," Tom whispered.

The words faded, and more appeared.

_Who are you?_

Tom gripped his quill, felt the hurt slowly wade from his heart, and brought the sharpened tip down to the page.

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Eleven Years (and Counting)

Next Chapter: Through the Pages


	10. Through the Pages (Part I)

A/N: Hey, guys. I'm not going to lie, I'm really sick today. Even though I had WAY more planned for this chapter as a turning point in the story, I'm going to have to cut it short. Very, very short. So, part one. Now excuse me while I die. Death by dehydration. Caused by throwing up. Sorry. Didn't need the visual.

Through the Pages (Part I)

_How is this possible? _Tom Riddle wrote frantically. _How are you in my diary?_

The response took much longer than he had patience for, and the words of whoever was on the other end very slowly appeared on the page, one by one. _You're the one in MY diary._

He blinked. What foolishness was this? He gripped his quill and dipped it in the black ink. _I've had this book since I was young, _he explained, and was beginning to feel skeptical of this person's claims. _Are you really her?_

_ Edith Black, you mean? _came the response.

He growled in frustration. _Obviously._

Once again, he waited. His heart was pounding in his ears, banging against his chest painfully. If it was her, if this was truly her, what did he say? What did he write? Did he demand to know why she'd vanished, breaking his heart the morning he was to be adopted? Did he show his anger that everyone at the Asylum whispered weeks and months afterwards, that she and Walter Leway had run off together? Did he pour out his soul of how lonely she had made him? How despised? Rejected?

Did he tell her how much he had missed her?

Finally, the marks began seeping into the page. Tom nearly threw himself onto the diary.

_I am._

He didn't believe it. Tom stared at the disappearing words, ready to respond, wanting to pour out his soul to her. It was still so hard to remember her face. Voldemort closed his eyes and focused, going back eleven years in time to the morning the snake had bit little Peter, and the police officer arrived at his doorstep to discuss with Mrs. Cole what should be done with him…

Ed's hair was very…large. He thought he recalled it looked wild, untamed and very enticing. Maybe, he thought, maybe he did know her eyes were very kind, kind and slightly fogged. Maybe not. For a single moment, Ed's face slid in and out of focus in his mind, and the indecisive nature of his memories got to him.

Damn it, were her eyes brown or blue? Her hair black or red? What did the destroyer of his childhood look like?

Tom had taken too long – the liar was writing again, and his face snapped in the direction of the page.

_But who are you?_

She didn't know? For some reason, he felt betrayed. Tom sat back, abandoning the diary on the opposite seat. He then reminded himself that this was an imposter. The train rumbled slightly as it chugged along the tracks. What did he say back?

Unless he had proof, evidence that whoever this was truly was his Ed, he didn't want to get too excited. All that would happen was him being crushed. Again.

A dull pain erupted in his chest, and Tom winced. His hand flew to cover his heart, as if it would ease the ache. What did he tell her?

_I am Lord Voldemort, _he ended up writing a good minute later.

After a short wait, Not-Ed responded. _Why Lord?_

He blinked. No one had ever asked him such a thing. This person out there somewhere had a strange magical connection to his very own diary that confused even he, and the thing she was curious about was his self-proclaimed title? Tom swallowed and wrote. _It just is._

_ But who are you, Voldemort? _she asked.

This offended him. Coolly, he responded, _Most prefer not to say my name with such blatant disrespect. My followers refer to me as "My Lord". Never just Voldemort._

She wrote quickly. Her words were written closer together, and the neat penmanship was a little more messy and careless. _But can you explain this? _she implored. _I've never seen anything like this. It's like magic. How are you in my diary?_

So, she _was _a Muggle, then. To some extent, he was relieved; Grindelwald had made it plain that he planned to clear the world of Mudbloods before moving on to the Muggles. To some other extent, he was crushed; if she was not Ed, what had he been hoping for all these years?

Tom grit his teeth and choked back the sting in his eyes.

_Let me get this straight, _he wrote quickly, _This is my diary. You are the one writing to me in my diary, and it can't be yours because I've had it since I was six. So if you think_-

Voldemort froze. His quill hovered a centimeter above the yellowed page, and his brain stormed. He had gotten the diary when he was six. Right after Ed had left. He had taken it from her room. His diary was never his to begin with: it belonged to _her_.

_Hello? _she wrote.

Tom's nails dug into his palm as he clenched his hands. _Where are you?_

_ Why?_

_ Tell me. Location, date, time. Now._

There was a lull in their conversation, and that dreaded feeling of his heart pounding against his ribs began again. Blood surged through his ears. And then Ed, _his _Ed, wrote: _I'm at a London Orphan's Asylum. It's August the twentieth, barely a moment past midnight, and I was reading an entry in this book before you interrupted me._

August? Tom looked out the window at the greenery. It was June. Maybe… But no, that was absurd. Wasn't it? _What year?_

_ What on earth do you mean?_

_ Tell me._

Four little numbers appeared on the page. _1932._

Tom understood. She wasn't in his diary; she was in his past. She was at the Orphanage right now. In the past. Their book was the same book, bound somehow, magically. Was it his hatred and longing to see her again that had made this connection? Or was there something more sinister lurking under the surface? He swallowed. _We have a bit of a problem, Edith Black._

She wrote back, _What problem?_

_ There's clearly something wrong with your book. You're communicating with someone through the pages. Do you understand what this means?_

_ It means I'm mad, _the diary said, _or this is real._

Tom grit his teeth. _If you had any common sense, you'd burn this book right away, _he began. _But…_

A minute passed, with the rumble of the train under his feet and the hesitation freezing his limbs. Finally, Ed's words interrupted his thoughts. _But what?_

Voldemort scowled. _Don't you want to know what magic is like?_

"I want to see you, Ed," he whispered. "And now there's a way. Before Grindelwald get to you…"

He frowned darkly.

"…I'd rather kill you myself."

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Error 404 Does Not Exist

Next Chapter: Through the Pages (Part II)


	11. Through the Pages (Part II)

A/N: Hey guys. Sorry it's been a bit. I've been sick and at school and yesterday I turned 19 so yeah. Been busy. Part II. (By the way, after mapping out the plot and trying to downsize it as much as possible, I've come to the conclusion that this will be a long fic indeed. Stick around if you'd like.)

Through the Pages (Part II)

Honestly, he'd thought about killing Ed before.

Of course, as a child, Tom Riddle had only wanted to see her again, his only friend in the world. Although he'd never considered himself particularly good, his six-year old self hadn't yet experienced thoughts and mind swimming in darkness. It wasn't until his initial visit from Dumbledore that Voldemort opened his eyes to the possibility of murder.

After finding his foot in the Wizarding world, longer passed before he befriended Alphard Black. It was at the moment that they learned each other's names that his curiosity in Edith had rekindled. Truthfully, by the time he had turned eight he barely thought about the woman. But once Alphard came along, there was suddenly a possibility that Ed was a witch, that she had her reasons for vanishing, that they were worthy of the most Ancient and Noble House of Black. He could have forgiven such reasons.

Even after his curiosity had sparked, he hadn't realized that it had quickly turned to worry, and his worry turned to doubt, his doubt to anger, and his anger to obsession. Voldemort remembered quite well the first time he dreamed of killing her.

He had been fourteen. After having managed to spend a few summer days at the Black's house over the holidays, he used the time to check the family tapestry himself. Of course, she hadn't been on it. He dreamt she appeared at the house, strode inside and greeted everyone like family. Mrs. Black was given a large hug (he barely remembered her hugs), Mr. Black a firm handshake (had her fingers been soft to touch?), and Alphard and Cygnus a large smile (what did her smiling face look like?). Even their ancient House Elf, Kreature had been given a nod of recognition.

Tom had waited, held his breath, trembling in anticipation of their reunion. But Ed hadn't even seen him, and strode straight past. He called out to her. She had turned. She cocked her head a little and asked Alphard who his friend was.

Ed didn't remember him.

He had aimed at her heart and there was a flash of green light. Then Tom had woken up in a cold sweat, Alphard hovering over him with a concerned look on his face.

That was the end of that nightmare.

It wasn't until breakfast the next morning that he realized how far-fetched his dream had been. First off, no one hugged Mrs. Black. He'd barely seen so much as an affectionate smile pass between her and her own husband. Secondly, Alphard would have told him if she was his family. Four years of nagging would have been enough motivation for him to tell the truth, and there was no reason his friend need lie to him. Thirdly and finally, Edith had asked Alphard who Tom was.

Tom didn't like to admit it, but he didn't remember much about the woman. Her face, the way she wrote, how she moved, all of it was a very permanent blur on his memories. But there was one thing he wouldn't even forget about Edith Black, and that was the fact that she could not speak.

She had spoken in the dream, so it could not have been real.

The pages of the diary practically trembled as Ed wrote back to him, and he waited, a crease between his brows.

_Magic? _she wrote.

_It's real, _Tom promised.

He waited nearly five minutes. Voldemort watched the landscape change outside the train window, glancing down every few seconds to see if she had written back. As the moments ticked by, he grew restless. What was taking her so long? Finally, her words bled onto the page.

_Can you tell me about Magic?_

He swallowed. _No._

The sky grew darker.

_But I can show you, _he wrote.

Moments later, he had thrown the compartment door open with a _bang_, and all four of his friends had jumped. "Nott, Alphard," he snapped, "Come."

He swept back to where he had left his diary and quill with a swirl of his robes. Corvus and Alphard glanced at each other and followed after their leader as fast as they could.

"My Lord, what-"

"Quite and follow me."

"But-"

"The halls have ears, Nott."

The walk back to Tom's compartment was a short, speedy one. He sat next to the diary and folded his arms.

"Close the door," ordered Voldemort.

Still shaken by their confrontation earlier, Alphard jumped to comply. "My Lord," he began, turning the bolt as well, "I deeply apologize for-"

"All is forgiven, Alphard, but only because I realize how difficult it must have been for you to stay silent all these years."

He bowed his head in humility. "My Lord…"

"We're still on the train."

"Thank you…Tom."

Corvus, who had listened to this conversation, now had his eyes fixed on the diary at Tom's side, which rested wide open on the seat. "What do you need of us?" he asked.

Tom followed his gaze and glared at the book. "Sit."

They sat.

"What I'm about to disclose to the both of you is very personal," he began. "More private than I'm willing to admit. You two are loyal. Crabbe and Leo are loyal, too, but they don't have the brains for this."

Corvus watched in silence, and Alphard said, "What are you saying?"

Voldemort lifted his chin proudly. "I'm in need of your help."

He began by telling them the story of his childhood, for Corvus who knew nothing about it. One day Edith Black had appeared, taking his life by storm. Suddenly, he who had been unloved played with the other children, had important things to say, and had a friend to talk to.

As suddenly as she had arrived, the very morning he was to inherit a family she was gone. It was at this point that Alphard interrupted him.

"You never went into detail about that man that died," he said. "You know, the one that Ed took over for?"

Tom's blood turned to ice. "What man?" he asked.

"You called him 'Barry'," Corvus said. "I was curious about that as well. You said he died, but how?"

"Just a heart attack," he said quickly, "It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it seem a little odd to you?" Corvus continued.

"I said it didn't matter," growled Tom.

"It _is_ a little convenient," Alphard insisted. "An opening is formed right as Edith needs a job? And it happens to be at your asylum?"

"_The point_," Tom hissed, "is that she was there, and then she was gone."

The two boys fell silent for a few long seconds, staring out the window at the rapidly setting sun. Corvus said quietly, "Tom, have you ever thought that maybe she isn't real?"

"Nott-!"

"Of course I have," Voldemort whispered. "I thought so many times that she never existed. That she was something I created – a tool, an excuse to vent my hatred."

"But?" Corvus prompted.

"But she _is _real." He looked to his diary. "And now I have proof."

Their eyes fell on the black binding. "You never said how she vanished."

"I told you she was gone, didn't I?"

"No, Tom," Corvus shook his head. "You didn't tell us what it was like. How you discovered it."

He had gone oddly quiet, and both Corvus and Alphard noticed. His eyes were fixed on the glass, like he was looking at something very far away.

"Tom?"

He didn't budge.

"My Lord?" asked Alphard. "My Lord, what are you looking at?

He could see it.

_She had to be there, Tom knew it – he didn't care what Walter said._

_ "Ed!" he cried as he dashed past the trees. His knee was still bleeding from the fall earlier; he barely felt it. His knee could wait, because everyone else was wrong, and he was right. He knew his eyes hadn't played tricks on him._

_ He had seen her._

_ She hadn't left him._

_ Not him._

_ "Barry was an accident!" he screamed as he ran. "I-I'll never do it again, I swear!" He gulped in some air and stumbled over a fallen branch that blocked his path. "Please," he whispered, "Please don't be dead…"_

_ The trees thinned out just as he started to smell the ocean. He had reached those damn cliffs again, and although Mrs. Cole had taken him there dozens of times before, he felt lost. Where could she be? She had promised to be at the safe point. They had decided on it together, and if she wasn't there-_

_ He froze._

_ Ed was standing far away, at the edge of the cliffs, her back to him._

_ Tom put one foot forward, and she turned. The same man from before stood next to her, his pale hand resting on her shoulder. He stared at Tom, smiling almost as if to say he'd won. Ed's warm eyes regarded him blankly._

_ "Ed," he breathed._

"It isn't anything," Tom Riddle whispered as the last pink of the sky finally drained from the clouds. "I'm not looking at anything."

From the way his friends looked at him, Tom could tell they knew he was lying.

"We'll be at King's Cross soon," said Alphard. "You called us in here because you needed something. What do you need, My Lord?"

He inhaled quietly and pointed to the book next to him. "She's writing me," he said. "I took this diary from her room the day she…left. I don't know how and I don't know why, but she's writing to me through it."

"Tom…"

"I'm not mad," he growled. "Even I've questioned my own sanity, Nott, and after today I know everything that happened was _real_. And I need your help."

Corvus sighed. "What do you want us to do?"

He lowered his voice. "There is dark, dark magic," he said, "Older and darker than any they're taught us at Hogwarts. I want to open a… door."

"A door?" breathed Alphard. "To where?"

"To 1932," he said. "I want to pull her into our time."

They were silent.

Outside there was a distant flash that lit up the now black sky, and long moments after followed the deep, familiar boom of thunder.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?" Corvus whispered. "The Ministry would arrest you just for thinking it. That sort of dark magic was outlawed a millennia ago, Tom. Even if we could prepare whatever ritual we'd need for such a task, we wouldn't know the incantation! And if we got caught, if there was even a shadow of doubt in the Ministry's mind that we were tampering with this, we'll all be given the Kiss."

"I'm not certain you've understood me, Nott," Voldemort said quietly. "I haven't given you an option."

"You – you'd condemn us all to death?" he asked. "Your followers? Your friends?"

"When you decided to follow me," Tom hissed, "You'd already condemned yourself."

They knew this was true. Corvus resigned with a sigh. "Fine. Then when do we start, _My Lord_?"

Tom clutched the diary to his chest and forced the memories of ocean running out of his head. "Now. We start now."

Alphard ruffled his black hair in frustration. "Where are we even going to find the instructions for such a thing?!" he snarled. "All the books on transdimension time gateways were burned back in Merlin's time! There isn't a single one left!"

"If I told you there was," Tom began, "Would it still be a problem?"

They froze. "Who on earth would have such a book?" Corvus asked. "How…completely _evil _would someone have to be to own one? Who is it, Tom?"

Voldemort swallowed. "Grindelwald."

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Through the Pages (Part I)

Next Chapter: Gellert's Ritual


	12. Gellert's Ritual

A/N: Next installment. I mean, I don't wanna spoil anything, but expect some answers in the next chapter. Not all. Just a few. Kay bye.

Gellert's Ritual

_When will you show me magic?_

_ Soon, _Tom wrote.

Ed responded quickly with the words, _It's been two days since you first promised. I can barely keep my mind on my work because I'm so curious. How much longer?_

They were breaking into Grindelwald's study that afternoon. It was their first, and likely their last, chance. The very day Tom and his friends got off the train he had sent a letter to the Dark Wizard, informing him that he was ready to be initiated into his top ranks.

The position had been offered to him once before, a month prior, by Grindelwald himself. Tom had been so consumed, he hadn't accepted. There was a chance that the man would reject him, but Voldemort didn't care – their meeting was the distraction.

He didn't feel right, sending Alphard into the lion's den while he and Corvus distracted the beast. Tom would have much rather gone himself, but Corvus refused to relent to this idea.

"It's suicide," he told him as they walked through the brick wall of Platform 9¾. "Alphard has already secured a position working at the base. His work term hasn't started yet, but it'll be natural for him to be there. The only thing that could distract Grindelwald from a break-in is you, Tom. Your meeting. His interest in getting you in his innermost circle is great enough that he'd be blind to all else. It's perfect."

"I will not send Alphard into the jaws of our enemy," growled Voldemort.

Alphard himself shoved his hands in his pockets and maneuvered around a family boarding a Muggle train. "Don't underestimate me, My Lord," he advised. "I may not be strong, but I'm light and quick; they won't even know I'm there."

Tom's was a losing battle. His friends would not have the plan to steal the book any other way, so he relented. "If you must. But I don't like this."

"How did you know, anyway?"

"Know what?"

"That Grindelwald has this book."

Tom considered the Muggles as they went about their daily business, unaware of the storm the old wizard had in store. "The book burning night," he whispered. "I'm not the only one who didn't burn what they brought."

He could remember clearly Grindelwald holding the washed-out, dirty, frayed binding in his bony hands, holding it over the flames of the pyre for a moment before stowing it into his robes.

"He has it. And now it's forfeit."

As the day his meeting with Grindelwald drew nearer, Tom found he could focus on little else but his diary. As hard as it was, he'd avoided writing Ed, and instead spent the hours watching the pages as she asked him if he was there, if he was busy, if he could show her magic. Now that he had cracked and wrote back, it wasn't surprising to find that she wanted to know when he would make good on his promise.

_I'm busy tonight, _he wrote.

_ But it will be soon? It will be, right? _She responded.

Tom's lips twitched upward. _It might._

There was a pause, and Ed's handwriting melted onto the page angrily. _Might? Voldemort, I've been waiting for two days, now. How can you expect me-_

The door of his room clicked, and he looked up right as it opened.

Alphard Black walked hurriedly into the room and kneeled before the desk. "I am here, My Lord."

Tom wrote, _I have to go,_ and closed the diary shut. "Are you ready?" he asked.

The boy grit his teeth. "Yes."

They walked briskly from the room moments later, escaping from the Black's family manor as fast as they could. "This is risky, Alphard," Tom informed him as they left the front door and the building shrunk back into the rows of identical homes. "Grindelwald is not nearly as forgiving as I am. If he catches you at his estate while he's away, I fear for you."

"My Lord, I live to serve you," murmured the boy. He grasped Tom's elbow and turned on the spot. They appeared with a loud _crack _outside the cottage in the woods. "I would gladly give up my life to further your cause."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said darkly. "Listen – he may not have put it in his library. The book could be anywhere. My guess is it's under lock and key. There could be some very powerful enchantments protecting it. You must tread lightly."

Leo Lestrange's orange signal flare shot out of the trees to the north, lighting up the dark ground under their feet. They watched for a moment, absorbed in the soft glare as it faded into the black sky. "The portkey is here. If I'm not back here by midnight, don't wait for me."

"Good luck," whispered Tom.

He nodded. "I will not fail you, My Lord."

Voldemort called out to him as he began his way into the trees. "Alphard!"

Black paused.

Tom smirked. "Don't get killed."

Alphard Black nodded, grey eyes set, and vanished into the forest.

The dark-haired man sighed and closed his fingers around the shape of the diary, which was stowed in his robe pocket. It was nearly nine. His leader would be waiting. Tom closed his eyes, just for a moment, and when they opened again he was standing in front of the doors of the war council room.

The loud noise of apparition ebbed out of his ears as he raised his fist and knocked.

"Enter."

The doors parted silently. Grindelwald sat at the head of a rectangular mahogany table, smiling in his unnerving way. "I've been expecting you," he said softly. "Sit."

Corvus was present, seated kitty-corner to the aging wizard. He greeted his friend with a rather detached blink. Tom took the opposite corner and folded his hands.

By now, Alphard would be in Russia.

"It's an honor to see you again, Sir," he said. It concerned him that Grindelwald looked unconvinced.

"indeed," he murmured, "Has it been since February?"

The book burning night rushed into his head. It took much willpower for him to not drop his smile. "I believe so,"

Would Alphard be inside the estate yet? Or was he still trying to find a way inside?

"Why is it that you have decided to join my inner circle, Tom Riddle?" asked Grindelwald. "As I recall, you told me at your initiation that you were only interested in the cause… Not the action."

"I've had a change of heart," Tom lied.

"And what, exactly," he whispered, "has changed?"

"If I don't do something about these Half-Bloods and Mudbloods, who will?" he asked.

The dark wizard seemed pleased. "Who indeed? I've always admired your courage, Riddle," he said. "I admit that I've greatly desired your admittance into my ranks."

Corvus shot Tom a nervous glance. "How is that, Sir?" he asked. "I didn't think word of Tom had reached beyond the walls of Hogwarts."

"Nott, you said you are called?" Grindelwald interrupted. "Corvious Nott?"

The blonde boy sat back and held his chin down. "I go by just Corvus, Sir. No one's called me Corvious since I was young."

The old man's smile broadened. "Well, 'Just Corvus'," he began, "Word of Mr. Riddle has reached _everyone_. He's quite famous for catching Salazar Slytherin's Heir."

The boys looked at each other.

"And, Grindelwald breathed, "I am not without my spies at Hogwarts."

Tom blinked. His spies? His…_spies_?

"I knew of you, Riddle," said the man. "I make it my business to know those who interest me."

He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. "If I may ask," Tom said slowly, "why do I interest you, Sir?"

He smiled. "Perhaps I will tell you why," he said. "One day."

They had come to shield his eyes from the threat they posed, but Tom and Corvus felt _they _were the ones being threatened. Despite the uncanny direction the conversation had taken (and the alarming news that Grindelwald had Hogwarts Spies) it was clearly coming to a close. That would not do – it'd hardly been fifteen minutes since Alphard had taken the portkey to Grindelwald's estate in Siberia. He needed more time. Tom cleared his throat. "Is your offer still open?" he asked.

Grindelwald chuckled, and the throaty sound sent shivers up Corvus' spine. "That depends,"

"Depends on what?"

"How far you're willing to fall."

The heavy double doors burst open, and the two immensely large body guards entered the room, lugging a dark shape with them. Tom's eyes were still adjusting to the sudden flood of light, so when they threw the shape onto the floor before them, he still hadn't picked out what it was.

Corvus stood suddenly, knocking his chair to the floor. His skin was paper-white. "Alphard!"

Tom blanched.

The shape groaned, and Voldemort noticed the trickle of blood that fell from Alphard Black's bruised lip. The nasty gash in his side and crimson-soaked robes didn't escape his notice, either. He stared.

Grindelwald stood slowly. "We caught him sneaking into the Estate. Isn't this…thing…a friend of yours, Mr. Riddle?"

Corvus practically launched himself across the room to get to Alphard, who lay bleeding on the stone ground, but the large men held him back. "Let go of me!" he cried. "Al! AL!"

His brain whirred. What did he do? What did he do? He found his lips began to move without him. "We go to school together. He's my friend."

"What did you do to him?!" Corvus yelled, his voice booming through the room.

Ignoring him completely, Grindelwald turned his attention to Tom. "Why would Mr. Black be poking around the Estate? Siberia is a long, long ways away, after all."

His mouth felt dry. "I don't know, Sir," he lied. "I haven't seen him since last week, after the term ended." He need not mention, he decided, that he'd been living at Alphard's home since then.

"So he was acting without your knowledge?"

"Sir, I-"

"That's all I needed to know, Mr. Riddle."

Alphard groaned and his eyes fluttered shut.

Corvus froze. "Al," he whispered.

"Oh, he isn't dead," Grindelwald chuckled. "Not yet."

Ice filled his veins. "What do you mean _yet_?"

"I only keep trustworthy people around me, Mr. Riddle and Just Corvus," he informed them, making his way to the side of the table where Alphard lay. "Everyone in my innermost circle has gone through a test like this. It's a fantastic way to root out the weeds."

"What did you call him?!" Corvus roared.

"Nott!" hissed Tom.

He seemed to calm down almost immediately. The guards stopped fighting to hold him back, and he stopped fighting to get past them. Corvus' chest heaved.

"Fascinating," whispered Grindelwald. "You have such a strange power over people. With just your words…"

"What are you telling me to do, Sir?" Tom asked.

"You can't have people by you that you wouldn't trust with your life, young one," he explained. "This one is clearly not trustworthy. So, you must be rid of him."

"He's our friend," Corvus shot, angry, but much calmer.

"I, too, have been betrayed by my very best of friends," Grindelwald murmured. Tom thought he saw something in the old man's eyes then, something like regret and anger. The context of the message he was trying to pass on did not escape him.

"Sir?"

He took a breath. "Kill him."

"No!"

"_Nott._"

"Even if he betrayed you and me, would you be willing to kill your friend to stay with me, Riddle?" asked the man.

A drop of sweat rolled down his neck. The room was still. Tom licked his lips. "He's already dead to me."

"Then _finish him_."

He pulled out his yew wand.

Corvus screamed. "What are you doing?! Tom, you can't!" Angry tears rolled down his cheeks. It was the first time Tom had ever seen him cry.

"Just answer me this, Alphard," said Voldemort.

The boy's grey eyes opened just enough to look up at him as he loomed overhead.

"Just tell me this. Are you still willing?"

Everyone held their breath. Alphard slowly shook his head, and Tom knew.

He pointed his wand at the boy's face and said "_Avada Kedavra._"

"NO!"

The flash of green light consumed the room, and then it was gone, and the grey seemed to have left Alphard's eyes.

"Very good," said Grindelwald into the silence. "_Very_ good, Mr. Riddle."

Corvus' legs gave out, and he slumped to the floor, staring at the body on the ground. Tears dropped from the edge of his chin to the floor.

"I now know I can trust you with my life. He who kills for me has also died for me, they say. Welcome to my inner circle."

Tom bowed. "Thank you, Sir."

Grindelwald smirked. "I think it would interest you to know that Alphard Black is not dead, Just Corvus."

The blond boy's head snapped up.

"I've seen how loyal your friends are to you," the wizard explained to Tom. "And if you are loyal to me, they will also be loyal. I wasn't about to have you truly kill a potential follower, although it is comforting to know you'd have done it for me."

"What?"

"He isn't dead, Tom. That isn't him."

Both Corvus and Voldemort whipped around just in time to see Alphard's body begin to change; his smooth, porcelain skin bubbled all over and went several shades darker. His grey eyes grew larger and greener, and his hair shrank back into his head and turned mud-brown. It was a man neither recognized. They stared.

"This was Norman," Grindelwald informed them. "He's who we truly caught sneaking into the Estate. He was being considered for a spot in my inner circle, as well…" He sighed. "But what a better way to test your loyalty than through the mistakes of others?"

They were speechless.

"If you hadn't killed him, Riddle," he closed, "I would have."

"Alphard's alive," Corvus whispered.

"Richard," said the old wizard to the taller of his guards, "Clean this up."

… … …

"Why did you do it?" he demanded the moment they apparated away to the cottage.

Tom inhaled. "Do what?"

"Don't bullshit me, Tom!" Corvus yelled, blocking the doorway with his arm. "You would have killed him!"

"It wasn't Alphard," he said. "Move."

"It could have been him!"

"Nott-!"

"If it was, you would have murdered him!" he cried. "Why did you do it? He's your friend!"

"I _knew _it wasn't him, alright?!" Tom snapped.

Corvus paused.

"He didn't say a single word the whole time," he explained angrily. "Nott, you _know _Polyjuice doesn't mimic voice. It never has. Maybe one day it will, but so far we've only been able to copy the outside of a person's body – not the inside, like their vocal chords and organs."

He could see in his eyes that he was realizing the merit of the Dark Lord's words.

"Grindelwald clearly placed a binding spell on his vocals so he couldn't speak and give himself away. If it had truly been Alphard, he would have fought it. He would have spoken. So it couldn't have been him."

He shoved the boy's arm out of the way and stalked inside. He sat heavily in one of the big, squishy green chairs by the mini fireplace and sighed. After nearly a whole minute, Corvus came inside, shutting the door carefully behind him. He took the other green recliner and clenched his fists in shame. "I'm sorry, My Lord," he murmured. "I was so angry that I didn't notice something so obvious."

"Never mind that, Nott," Tom grumbled.

The silence stretched on for a little longer. "I was beside myself," he explained. "I truly am sorry."

Voldemort faced him, a serious light in his dark eyes. "Nott," he mumbled.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Have you considered… Telling him how you…"

Corvus blinked. "Tell who what?"

Tom shook his head. "It's nothing. Forget it." They sat in silence, but he couldn't stop seeing how emotional the blonde boy had gotten, nor how desperate he'd been to stop him, nor how many tears he'd shed. His eyes were dry now, but they were still lined with a little red. None of it went unnoticed by Tom.

The cottage door was thrown open and Leo, Crabbe, and Alphard (alive and well) all burst into the room.

They jumped up. "You're back!"

"It wasn't easy," breathed Leo.

"I ran into some trouble while I was guarding the portkey," Crabbe said. "Nearly got snowed over. Literally. Up to my neck."

"Did you get it?" Tom asked.

Alphard opened his mouth to respond, but caught on to the tense atmosphere between his Lord and Corvus. "Is everything all right?" he asked. "How did the meeting go?"

Nott said, "Fine," and brushed past them and outside.

Alphard blinked. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's fine," Voldemort said. "Did you get the book?"

"You're not going to believe this," he said, pulling two objects from his robes. The first was, indeed, the book. Wrapped in aging, fraying washed-out fibers, the book went into Tom's hands and he held it close.

"You got it," he breathed. "It…It truly does exist, this book. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me at Chernobyl."

"Finding the book isn't all," Alphard said. "I also found _this_." He held up a roll of new parchment, bought shut with a string.

"What is that?"

"A diagram," he said. "My Lord, this is huge news."

He felt something like a warning prick the back of his neck. Voldemort swallowed. "Of what?"

"It's a diagram of the ritual," Alphard explained. "My Lord, Grindelwald is trying to open a gate, too."

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Through the Pages (Part II)

Next Chapter: At Long Last


	13. At Long Last

A/N: This is all I have to say in my defense: This was the plan from the beginning. Read responsibly.

At Long Last

He could see why these rituals were banned.

Tom read long into the night, pouring over the pages of the book again and again. This was dark magic. Voldemort had heard rumors of Necromancy (mostly because he sought them out) but books of this ilk were very difficult to come by.

The business of Time Gates was most assuredly a Necromancer's Art. One of the things they would need was blood; hardly surprising, seeing as most dark magic was intended to weaken those who used it.

Tom clenched his jaw. Let them bleed him dry. He would not be stopped.

The book went into detail about why they would need the required elements of the ritual; Dragon heart, for ancient magic; Giant's teeth, to poison what they used as the gate; Veela hair, to neutralize the age of the medium; and last, the Sands of Time, to bring them back. It was the sort of sand they were taught in school about, the kind that the Ministry was working on to create something called a Time-Turner. According to Professor Dumbledore, only three of these had ever been successfully created. The Sands of Time were a tricky thing.

The measurements were precise, down to the last grain. Even one off, and it was likely to malfunction.

Once he had memorized the Necromancer's Alchemy circle they were to draw, Tom finally put the book down. Grindelwald's diagram detailed the same things in the book, but more condensed, and much more precise. He knew they couldn't keep it much longer – Alphard had transfigured another book and scroll to mimic those he had stolen, but it wasn't a perfect spell, and it would wear off in a few days.

There was a knock on Tom's bedroom door, and Alphard poked his head inside a moment later. "Are you asleep, My Lord?"

"Clearly," Voldemort replied sarcastically. "Come in, Alphard."

The boy shut the door behind him and clasped his hands behind his back. "Have you finished reading?"

"Only just," he said. "We'll have to put the book and diagram back by this afternoon."

He bowed. "Yes, My Lord."

Tom's gaze softened. "Will you be okay, bringing it back?"

"Of course," he said indignantly, proudly. "I've sent Leo and Corvus to gather what we need. Dragon heart will be a little tricky, but I have no idea where we'll get a hold of that sand…"

"I'd like to avoid breaking into the Ministry, if that's all right with you," Voldemort said coolly. "I know they keep a store of it somewhere, but it would take too long to find out, too risky to steal."

"Maybe," began the boy slowly, "We could find a Time-Turner?"

Tom blinked.

"My father's friend's cousin works as an Unspeakable," he continued. "If anyone is going to have a Time-Turner, wouldn't he be one of them?"

He considered this. "True. It does seem likely. Would you be able to rob him of it?"

"I'm sure I can think of something," he murmured.

Tom hummed in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair.

Alphard licked his lips. "M-My Lord," he began, "If all goes well, we'll have everything we need for the ritual by tomorrow evening. If everything works, you could see Edith again in two days. What are you going to do after you pull her here?"

He stared at the wall just over his friend's shoulder. "Is that something you need know, Alphard?"

"I can't deny that I'm curious," he admitted. "For years I've heard you talk about her, but I truly don't know much more than what you've told me, and I know you've been keeping something to yourself."

Tom's eyes smoldered. "Yes," he said. "I have been keeping something from you. A few things, Alphard."

He swallowed. "Can't you share them with me?" he asked. "Even just one? I feel you could be much more liberated and at peace, My Lord, if you just-"

"At peace?" Tom asked in surprise. "Do you truly think it possible? Alphard, I will _never _be at peace."

"Just tell me," he begged. "Please!"

The Dark Lord sucked in a breath. "Once I have her in my hands," he said, "I will tell you everything. Once I have her."

… … …

_Who named you Voldemort? _Ed asked the next day.

Tom smirked. _Shouldn't you be working, right now?_

_ Who? _She pressed.

He dipped his quill in the black ink. _No one named me. It's a name I chose for myself, one I earned._

_ So Voldemort isn't your real name, then? _She asked.

He was both annoyed and impressed by her perceptiveness. _I won't tell you my real name, if you're asking, _he wrote. _You'll learn it soon enough._

_ So you're going to show me magic soon, then? What time? What kind? What is magic like? Are considered a Warlock, a Wizard, or do you call it something different where you're from?_

His head spun with her battalion of questions. _I can show you magic tomorrow._

Her response was a long time in coming, but when it did arrive, her penmanship (which was usually very neat and tidy) had significantly decreased in quality. _How?_

_ Wait and see._

_ Where are you, anyway? _She asked next. _I've told you my whereabouts. Do you even live on earth? Is there a whole other world for people that use magi-_

The writing stopped, and Tom frowned. He waited, but she did not continue. He picked up his quill. _Hello? _The words faded to nothing and the page remained blank._ Ed?_

Nothing. He panicked.

_Ed?_

_ Sorry. _The word washed onto the page, and he sighed in relief. Ed continued. _I've got to go, Tom needs me for something._

He froze. His fingertips prickled. _Tom? _he wrote quickly.

_A boy at the Orphan's Asylum. Look, can we talk later? He said there was a man at the gate asking to see me, it sounds urgent._

"No," he whispered. "No, you can't." The quill jabbed the page. _Don't go down there!_

The ink faded, and there was no response.

"Shit," whispered Tom. "Oh, fuck! Bloody hell!"

He bolted from his room a moment later, diary shoved in his pockets and quill abandoned on his desk. When he reached the door to Alphard's room, he burst inside.

"Whoa!" cried Alphard, jumping up from his comfortable green recliner, stowing a magazine away under the seat. "My Lord, I was just, um…"

He strode forward, grabbed his forearm and said, "Do you have your wand, Alphard?"

He blinked. "Yes,"

Voldemort turned on the spot. They arrived in front of the cottage, and the black-haired boy yelped in surprise as they landed none-too gently on the grassy earth before the door. He took in his surroundings.

Losing his cool, Alphard said, "Tom, I was busy – My Lord, why are we here?"

Without a word, he yanked Alphard's sleeve up, revealing his still-fresh Dark Mark. Tom extracted his yew wand and pressed it to the mark. Not a second later, there were three loud _bangs_, and Leo, Crabbe, and Corvus appeared.

"My Lord-"

"I have no time to explain," he snapped, cutting them off. "We need to open the Gate as soon as possible – do you understand?"

Crabbe stepped forward. "I haven't been able to secure a Dragon Heart, yet, My Lord-"

"Then secure one, Crabbe!" he yelled. "We have no time!"

Corvus frowned. "Tom-"

Voldemort turned to him, and they could have sworn his eyes flashed red in the light. "Are you challenging me, Nott?" he asked.

Corvus closed his mouth.

"What are you waiting for?" he hissed. "GO!"

They apparated all at once, and after the sound was absorbed into the trees, he got to work. "_Bombardra_!" The trees before him fell, and he vanished them with a wave of his wand before the crashing noise had even stopped. The dirt was leveled and smoothed, and the clearing was ready for the Necromancer's circle.

"Damn it," he hissed as he drew.

How could Tom have been so blind? He hadn't thought that time was progressing in the past, as well. He thought that, because he was ahead of her, it wouldn't matter how long it took to open the gate. But time _was _moving forward.

Tom Riddle was no fool – he knew his memories of Edith Black had been suppressed. He hadn't known until they studied memory charms in his third year at school, but once he learned the symptoms and read about the theory, everything made sense.

How was it possible that he didn't recall her face? How was it possible that he couldn't remember what he felt like, how she acted, how she wrote to him? He could see it; the man that arrived at the Orphanage that day had to have something to do with it. Tom didn't know this man's face, either, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was _he _tampering with his memories.

It was that man's fault that many things had happened.

There was a _crack, _and when he looked up, Alphard had shoved the Time-Turner into his hands and breathed, "The others are coming."

… … …

Everything was in place. The Dragon Heart lay on its designated space in the Necromancer's circle, along with the Giant's tooth and Veela hair. His hands were shaking.

"It's ready," he said.

Corvus put his hand on Tom's arm as he began to move to the center. "My Lord, the book stated that we have to wait for a crescent moon," he said. "This isn't a step we can skip."

"There's no time," he hissed.

"If we do this wrong, you could be stuck there!" he yelled. "Bad things happen when you mess with time! The gate could only be open for a few minutes! What if it closes?!"

"Then let it close," he said. "I have to go _now, _Nott."

Corvus clenched his teeth. "Then I'm coming with you."

They looked at each other, fire burning into air, but Tom didn't fight. "Do as you wish."

"Merlin," whispered Leo.

Corvus and Tom entered the circle and placed the diary at the center. The latter broke the Time-Turner and clenched the sand in his fist. It was coarser than he'd imagined it. Alphard stepped forward. "Let me come too!"

"No," shot Corvus. "Stay here. I don't want-" His throat tightened, and he swallowed. "The Dark Lord needs you here."

"Nott, grab my arm," said Tom. "When I drop the sand onto the diary we'll be sucked through."

He held on tight.

Voldemort inhaled, and it was as if his whole body was on fire. The sand trickled through his fingers. He closed his eyes.

Alphard shouted something as them, but it was too late; white light engulfed them, and they left their friends behind. The cottage was gone.

Corvus exhaled. "Okay. Where the bloody hell are we?"

His eyes shot open. "We're in Ed's room," he whispered.

It had worked. The room was just like he'd remembered it – clean, tidy, bed made, small window looking out over the yard in the back. He hadn't gone into Ed's room since she left. The other link, his diary, lay open in the floor in front of her nightstand. It looked much newer. His head swam.

"What time is it?" he asked.

Corvus searched the walls for a clock but found none. "I don't know – it's bright out, so maybe a little after midday."

"We've got to find her, now."

"Tom!" He grabbed his Lord's sleeve again, holding fast. "Just wait a moment! Explain to me what's going on. The plan was to open the gate the day after tomorrow, but you had us pull everything together in forty minutes! Grus and I had to _steal _the dragon heart from the Apothecary! I think Al had to knock that bloke out for the Time-Turner!"

"We've got to find her, Nott," Tom said. "I swear I'll tell you everything later!"

Corvus released his arm. "Tom, I don't know how much time we have," he warned. "We didn't follow the instructions – I'm amazed it worked at all. If you really have to do this, then find her and let's get out of here."

He said, "Let's go," and swept from the room.

Some children loitered in the halls, and it threw him off. Half of them still lived there, and they were much older. Tom saw them every summer when he left Hogwarts. The young faces looked at him in confusion, and he halted on the steps when he saw a familiar face.

"Sally!" he gasped.

A little girl with blue ribbons in her hair squeaked and said "Yes?"

"Sally, have you seen Ed, or…or Tom?"

"T-Tom ran outside an hour ago," she said. "I haven't seen Edith since breakfast. But who are you?"

He ignored her and bolted from the building, Corvus hot on his heels. "Where are you going, Tom?!"

"She's already there, Nott!" he yelled back. "She's at the cliffs!"

"Is this the day she disappeared?" he asked, trying to catch up.

"Yes," said Tom. "This is the day. This is my last chance."

The tree line wasn't too far behind the Orphanage. He remembered running this far when he was young, and it had taken a long time. Now he was older, faster, and the trip was quicker. The sea wasn't as far away as it had seemed when he was young.

Once the forest finally started to thin, almost thirty minutes had passed, and both Tom and Corvus were breathing hard. His heart thumped angrily against his chest.

"We're almost there," he called. "Just over this hill… Just over this, and she should be there!"

"Tom," gasped Corvus, "Tell me what's going on!"

"_Later_!" he cried as he reached the top of the slope. "Just as soon as we-!"

He froze.

Six-year old Tom was stock still, fifty meters away. The ocean scent tickled his nose. Young Tom looked at the cliffs, where they stood.

Ed.

Her face rushed into his head. Of course. Of course, that was what she looked like. How did he forget? She had always looked like this.

His heart clenched.

She looked at young Tom, regarding him blankly, wild hair moving gently in the breeze.

"It's her," said Voldemort.

Corvus reached the top of the hill. "Holy shit, Tom – is that you? You're tiny."

"It's her, Nott."

"But who is _that_?" he asked.

The man wasn't looking in their direction, but at the sea. Tom couldn't see his face, but he knew this man. He knew he had to act fast.

"Go get her," Corvus encouraged. "You've waited eleven years. Never mind that bloke. Just go."

He ran.

Young Tom yelled something to the two people, and Ed made a move to escapes the man's clutches, but he held on tight. Voldemort dashed past his younger self and across the stretch of earth, not bothering to wonder what the boy thought. He was so close now…

"_Expelliarmus!" _roared the man, and something flew out of Ed's hands.

Tom nearly tripped. He was a _Wizard_. Now that he thought about it, he'd known for a long time that this man was no Muggle. The night they first met sprang up in his memory.

Not even a week after he had first met Ed, Tom had been looking out of his tiny bedroom window, staring up at the stars and dreaming of a future. His new friend had promised to come back to visit him again, and he fervently wished that she would find a job as soon as possible.

It made no sense to young Tom that no one would make a vacancy for Ed – she was such a lovely person. It was true that she didn't speak much, but neither did he. It was true she had no family, but neither did he. It was true she didn't know who she was, but Tom wasn't sure about that, either.

He liked Ed. So, to become her family, he was up in the earliest hours of dawn, when the sky was still black and the moon out. He was determined to find a shooting star. Only then could his dream come true.

Something dimly white shot across the great black sky, and Tom gasped. "A shooting star!" At last! The boy clasped his hands together and screwed his eyes shut so tight that wrinkles formed all around his face. "I wish that Ed can get a job and become my mum!" he cried. "Or my sister! Please, I want her to be _someone_ to me…"

He cheated, opening one eye just a little to see if the star was still streaking across the sky, but it was gone.

"…I want to be someone to her," he added meekly.

There was a loud bang from the ground floor, and Tom threw himself against the wall to hide from whoever was down there. He guessed it was probably Barry – Mrs. Cole's cousin often looked up into the windows when it was dark to catch those who stayed up. Tom had already been caught three times that month, and now with the (unfair) snake incident, he had to be cautious to avoid any more strikes.

Sure enough, Barry Cole wobbled out into the yard and stopped right in a spot that Tom could see perfectly well, but the man did not look up into the windows to catch disobedient children. Instead, he took a large swig from a gleaming bottle and shook his head.

Tom relaxed; Barry was drunk. He wouldn't see him even if he tried. When the boy focused his hearing, he could distinguish the words Barry was mumbling to himself.

"..silly woman, doesn't know what she's talking about… I told her I've seen 'er before, I have! Looks oddly familiar, that one… Where've I seen 'er? Where…" He took another swig and grumbled.

It was then, with Tom watching from the window of the smallest room, that the man appeared.

Voldemort was yanked from his thoughts when they noticed him.

"Let go of her!" he yelled, and the man stumbled closer to the cliff in surprise.

"Who are you?" the blonde man asked, but seemed to think better of conversation, and turned his wand at him. "_Expelliar-!"_

_ "Deprimo!" _Tom roared, and the powerful gust of wind blew the man off his feet. He slid to the edge of the cliff, but barely managed to grab hold and aim at the boy again.

"_Stupify!_"

"_Protego!_"

The red jet of light bounced off of Tom's shield and flew into the grey skies above. The man ignored him and tried to pull himself back onto the ridge.

The dark haired boy turned to the woman beside him. He grabbed her hand. "Come with me," he said.

She tugged, attempting to escape, looking wildly from him to the man hanging from the drop.

"Come _on_," he hissed. "I don't have time to explain!"

She shook her head, her eyes now seeking out young Tom, who had begun to inch closer, shaking in his shoes. The man roared and used all his strength to pull himself up. Voldemort began to feel panicked.

"Ed, it's me!" he cried, and she stilled. "Look at me! _Look at me!_"

Their eyes met, and for a moment, he found himself immersed in the beautiful shade of brown that her eyes were. This time, he vowed, he would not forget it. Not this time.

"Let her go!" cried a tiny voice.

Voldemort looked down to see himself, six years old, weakly hitting him. It was strange, how now that this was happening to him, he remembered it having happened in the past, as well. He remembered being terrified as two men tried to steal his friend from him. Voldemort realized he had no choice.

"_Obliviate,_" he murmured, gently prodding his wand against young Tom's temple. His skin glowed blue for a moment, and then the boy fell to the ground and stared, dazed, outward. When he regained his senses, all he would remember was the fact that she was gone.

The irony that it was Voldemort himself that erased his memories of Edith Black was not lost to him. It was really him, all along. And he would be the one to take her, this time. Not that man.

Ed beat his chest in alarm, trying to break free. He frowned. "Ed, don't you know me?" he asked.

"TOM, LOOK OUT!"

Something heavy hit the side of his head, and his vision went black. He felt dirt and sand and gravel bite into his palms, and once the color started seeping back into his sight, he recognized the bright flashes of light that flew back and forth between Corvus and the blonde man, who was back to safety with nothing more than a mud stain on his robes.

Ed was backing closer and closer to the edge of the cliff, away from the danger. Young Tom watched from his spot on the ground, still dazed from the memory wipe.

"No," whispered Voldemort. He couldn't even hear himself. "No, not again!"

It was as if he was seeing it in slow motion. Tom had always thought that witnessing this scene once was the worst thing that had happened to him. He had been wrong; seeing Ed fall the second time was much harder.

A stray spell from the duel hit her square in the chest, and her warm brown eyes glazed over. With her lips parted only slightly, she vanished over the edge of the cliff and into the ocean.

"NO!" he screamed.

Corvus froze. The blonde man rushed to the cliff and looked over. A panicked expression covered his face, and with one last look at Tom, he turned on the spot and apparated.

Corvus grit his teeth. "Shit – Tom, we've got to leave!"

He scampered to the place she fell. "Ed! Oh, God, no!"

Corvus sent a look at young Tom, then strode forward and seized his Lord's arm, apparating back to the Orphanage. The moment they arrived he reached out to touch the diary, and they were sucked through.

The gate crashed shut behind them, and they tumbled onto the forest floor of 1943.

Alphard gasped. "My Lord! How did it – where's Edith? Didn't you find her?"

Corvus didn't give him a moment – he grabbed hold of Tom's robes and yanked him toward the cottage, slamming his back against the wall. "You knew!" he hissed.

Voldemort said nothing.

"My Lord? Nott, what's going on?!"

"You knew she was dead!" he accused. Alphard quieted. "You knew all these years, and you never said a _word_! Tell me! Tell me it isn't true!"

He stared over his shoulder.

"Tell me!" Corvus yelled. "_Tell me!_"

"I knew," whispered Voldemort.

The forest was silent.

"Of course I knew," he said. "I watched her fall."

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Gellert's Ritual

Next Chapter: Confessions of a Dark Lord


	14. Confessions of a Dark Lord

A/N: It's been over a week. Sorry. College. Studying Korean. Have a good one. Also, happy March. Kay bye.

Confessions of a Dark Lord

_1932_

"..silly woman, doesn't know what she's talking about… I told her I've seen 'er before, I have! Looks oddly familiar, that one… Where've I seen 'er? Where…"

Barry Cole tilted his head back to gulp down a large mouthful of alcohol, and Tom found it odd; it wasn't often that he got drunk. Usually only Mrs. Cole smelled of brandy and scotch around the clock. Barry was the responsible, level-headed one. Yet there he was.

Tom's breath fogged up the glass as he watched from above, wondering what the man was muttering to himself. Barry sighed.

"_Swear_ I recognize her, that one," he whispered. "Strange, that I can't remember…"

He climbed under the covers of his small bed in his tiny room and shut his eyes. Let Barry ramble on as he wished – he had to sleep if he wanted to help Edith find a job.

_Crack!_

Barry yelped, and Tom's eyes shot open. What had that been? A gunshot? Shattering glass?

"W-who are you?! Where did you come from?!"

The boy scrambled to the window again, peeking over the sill just enough to see the yard.

There was a man. He was tall, strong, had scraggily blonde hair, and his eyes were a dark and intimidating blue. The yard was fenced all around. How had he gotten inside?

Barry stumbled back and yelled again, "Who are you?!"

The man's eyes swept over the cowering figure of Mrs. Cole's cousin, regarding him in…surprise? Fear? Exasperation? He sighed. "Damn. I thought the yard would be empty at this time of night."

Tom's heart thumped. A burglar? Should he call Mrs. Cole?

The man took a step toward Barry, who stumbled back. "Y-you stay away!" he ordered. "Do you hear me? Stay away!"

"I can't do that," he responded quietly. "You see, I have something to do here. And _you're _in the way."

The man slowly withdrew a thin piece of wood from the pockets of his strange clothing and turned it on Barry, its sharp tip pointing threateningly at his exposed throat. "What are you d-doing?" He chuckled nervously. "I'll call the police! You're going to hurt me? With a stick?"

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised.

There was a flash of orange light that blinded Tom up above, and he squinted through the brightness just in time to see Barry grab at his heart, gasp, and fall to his knees. He stared.

The man finished, "You're already dead."

He teetered over and onto his back, legs bent at odd angles. Tom wanted so badly to blink, but he couldn't. What had happened? Oh, Lord… Barry was dead. He wasn't moving. He was dead.

The man suddenly looked up.

Tom gasped and dropped under the window, pressing his back against the wall. Had he seen him? His breath was caught painfully in his throat. He didn't dare inhale. He didn't know who this man was, but he had killed Barry… The man Tom had known his whole life was gone.

He waited. Seconds passed. Minutes. His heart rate slowly returned to a slow but nervous beat. He had to be gone by now. Tom swallowed and placed his hands on the edge of the window sill, peeling his sweaty back off the wall. Gingerly, he lifted his eyes above the wood.

The man's face was right on the other side of the glass. He smiled.

Tom screamed.

"_Silencio,_"

The sound froze in his mouth. He gasped in air, opened his lips wide, yelled, called; he could feel his vocal chords tremble, rumble in his neck right beneath his skin, but there was no noise.

He couldn't make a sound. For one wild moment, Tom wondered if this was how Ed felt – then the window slid open sharply and the man was inside. His room was on the second floor! How had he gotten up there?

The blonde man surveyed the small space, reaching out and touching either wall with his hands and gauging the height of the ceiling. Tom clambered for the opening, but the panel snapped shut unnaturally before he could escape.

The man hummed as the boy struggled with the glass. "Small room," he murmured. "Do you like it in here? I can barely stretch my arms out,"

He slammed against the window pane with his shoulder.

The man tisked. "You won't get out that way," he said. "Why not try the front door?"

In his haste and alarm, Tom made a run for it, but the second he stepped off the bed the door burst into flame. He shook his head. He must be dreaming. He _must _be dreaming.

The man leaned against the wall and picked at a spot, seemingly unconcerned. "That man," he began, and Tom froze, "I didn't really want to kill him. But he's dead."

The blood drained from his face.

"It's his fault for being there," he yawned. "He was unlucky. Was he your father?"

Tom was barely able to shake his head.

The man hummed. "That's right. This is an Orphanage. You haven't got any father."

It was the first time he'd really thought about it. For some reason, and he noticed, it hurt.

"Do you know why you're alone?" he asked. "Did your parents die? Or did they abandon you?"

He knew his mother was dead. He hadn't ever known his father, if he was alive or not. But Tom knew that, if he was alive, he wouldn't have…left him.

"I'll wager they left," said the man cruelly. "In fact, everyone has abandoned you, haven't they?"

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. "N-!"

The man's eyebrows shot up.

"No!"

Something around his neck shattered, and invisible bond, and Tom could speak again.

"Ed hasn't-! Ed wouldn't-!"

"How did you break that?" the man whispered. Something in his eyes shifted, and he said quickly, "How old are you?"

Tom clenched his fists. "I'm six, and I'm not alone! Ed wouldn't leave me! She… she isn't like the others!"

"How?" he whispered.

"Because she's different, too!"

He could tell immediately that he'd said something he shouldn't. Understanding passed across his face, and he whispered, "Six years, you said."

His lip trembled.

The man pushed off the wall and drew a step closer. "You saw how he died, did you not?" he asked quietly. Tom stumbled back. "How quickly…how easily…"

He leaned down until his mouth was next to Tom's ear.

"I could do that to anyone," he said. "Including you."

It was as if his heart had stopped beating.

"But I don't want to kill you," he finished, moving away, and the boy's knees gave out. "So you'll have to promise me to keep quiet."

… … …

_1943_

"He killed the man that worked at my Orphanage," explained Tom once again. "I saw it from my bedroom window, and he threatened me to keep it secret."

His friends sat all around the table in the cottage, staring at their hands or the wall, not moving an inch.

Voldemort swallowed. "I was a child," he said. "I didn't know what to do. So I stayed silent, found a bright side to the situation – with Barry gone, Ed could move in. The thought hadn't crossed my mind until Mrs. Cole suggested it, and then I thought it was a blessing that he had died. I started telling myself that I'd had a nightmare, and that Barry had really had a heart attack."

The 'but' hung unspoken in the air for a while, and Crabbe shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Ed and I grew even closer," he whispered. "She was my only friend. We had a secret meeting place if ever anything went wrong."

"That cliff," Corvus interrupted quietly.

He exhaled. "The more I thought on it, that man's words scared me. Everyone had abandoned me? Everyone would? I confided in her, of course. I told her everything, back then. She said that it didn't matter who my parents were, nor the choices they made. I should be proud they were my parents."

They knew how this story ended.

Tom thought, for only a moment, of his father and grandparents lying on the floor of their mansion, eyes wide and blank. He swallowed. "Then she told me that she'd never leave. Mrs. Cole came home the next day, and they started filling out the adoption papers."

Alphard rubbed his hands.

"He came back. He arrived at the gate and asked for Ed. I only heard to pass on the message through Mrs. Cole, so I didn't see it was him. Ed went out, and an hour later she still hadn't come back."

That was when Walter had showed up. Tom decided, firmly, to skip this part of the story. Walter found Ed missing, and informed Tom that it must have meant she was off to move away with him, as he'd extended the invitation to her before. Walter left, his stupid orange hair ruffling in the wind and the hole where his ear should have been nonchalantly present.

Everyone started whispering that she had left with him, ran away.

"Then Mrs. Cole said the man that had come to see Ed had been blonde," he continued. "I thought he had taken her away to kill her, so I ran to our secret spot on the cliffs, and there they were. My memory gets fuzzy after that, but I never forgot… I couldn't forget…"

Corvus stared at the table top.

"I thought, years later, that perhaps Edith Black had been a Witch," he explained. "If she was, she might have survived. So I was looking for her. But she isn't a Witch. So I thought I could save her."

But she was dead.

None moved, and the rest of the night passed in the silence of the Dark Lord's confessions.

… … …

It was hard, but he pretended to forgot her once again.

Though she never really strayed far from his thoughts.

Summer turned into fall, fall to winter, and winter back into spring. Grindelwald was rising to power faster than any dark wizard ever had, and in the last months of Tom's final time at Hogwarts, the future became uncertain.

The end of year feast was magnificent. Crabbe and Leo started piling their plates full of potatoes and gravy and pouring gallons of Pumpkin Juice into their goblets. Alphard hummed happily as he surveyed the options, eventually reaching for the roast lamb. Even Corvus had indulged himself a little, having taken a little of each dish, with the exception of the headcheese.

Tom picked at his green salad, not putting much into his mouth. Corvus reached across the table and poured some butterbeer into his Lord's goblet. "This is the last meal we're having here," he said, and Tom looked up. "You should eat your fill."

He glanced around the Great Hall, and for some reason, every moment he'd spent there came rushing back to him. Studying, learning to apparate, eating, plotting, talking. He looked at the faces of each of his friends in turn.

Crabbe. Poor, useless Crabbe. There had been a time when he'd been late for their Potions O.W.L, and Tom had stalled the Professor by tipping a small vile of laxative into her morning coffee. Crabbe had arrived before she had her colon completely cleansed, but he'd still gotten a Troll.

Leo. The Lestrange boy may have been stupid, but he was fiercely loyal, and an excellent warrior. He was just the sort of person that Tom trusted with his life. If he'd trusted his life with anyone, that was. He suddenly remembered Leo's face of determination when he'd been given the Dark Mark. It was a painful process, but he'd smiled and thanked Tom once it was over.

Voldemort's eyes snaked to his left. Alphard. The only one he'd trusted with his secret. Tom found it hard to comprehend that he could ever forget how much that man had done for him. He vowed to always remember what Alphard had sacrificed to help him. The time he'd jumped into the lake to save Tom's runaway Charms essay replayed before his eyes.

He sighed and turned to the last of his friends.

Corvus.

At first, the blonde eleven-year old had been a shadow that showed no interest in him or Alphard. Then, as time passed, and Crabbe and Leo joined him, Corvus had naturally gravitated to them. They hadn't confirmed their friendship until Tom's fifth year, but they had been closer than anyone since then. It was the year he had finally found evidence of his lineage. Having discovered it was his mother, not his father, that was the magical one, Tom lost all faith in the idea of family. Corvus had found him in the library, surrounded by old books from the restricted section that were screaming from being opened without authorization.

He'd stared at the line of Witches and Wizards that had descended from Salazar Slytherin, and at the name written just before his own: Merope Riddle, née Gaunt. His mother.

The boy had read over his shoulder for a moment, and then without a word closed each of the screaming books one by one. It was dead silent in the library.

Corvus stood before him and bowed deeply. "What would you have me do, My Lord?"

"What is it?"

Tom blinked. Corvus was chewing absent-mindedly on a bun, staring at him.

"Why are you looking at me?" he asked.

"I'm just remembering things," Tom admitted.

The other three stopped eating to look up.

"We've all been together so long," he said. "Now that we're leaving our home, how do we know nothing will change?"

"It will change," said Leo. "But…My Lord, we're with you till the very end."

Crabbe nodded, and Alphard said, "We have a world to change, after all."

"I'm not sure if staying with Grindelwald is the best course of action," the dark-haired boy admitted.

Corvus took a sip of water and said, "It isn't ever too late to back out, Tom."

Professor Dippet stood from his seat, and Dumbledore to his right shot a shower of gold sparks from his wand across the hall. The entire assembly fell silent. The elderly Headmaster smiled.

"Friends!" he cried, "It has been yet another wonderful year. To those of you who have come to Hogwarts for the first time, may you return many more. To those of you who, unfortunately, have reached the end of your time…"

Tom looked down.

"…may you live on with these memories in your heart. Leaving Hogwarts is not the end of your education – rather, it's the beginning. This year has seen many changes in history." He gestured to the badge sitting proudly on Tom's chest. "Hogwarts has seen the first Head Boy from Slytherin ever." He then turned to Dumbledore. "Also, the first Professor employed at this institution to gain the honor of the Order of Merlin, second class."

Voldemort glared at the wizard, who seemed not to notice at all.

"But," continued Dippet, "There have also been bad things."

Quiet murmurs filled the hall, and he held up his hand for silence.

"As you all know, Gellert Grindelwald is a man who has decided to take the future into his own hands. He has attacked countless Muggle settlements around Europe, and has threatened to kill those who oppose him."

Tom leaned forward to better listen. What was the point of mentioning this?

"This afternoon," said Dippet, "Grindelwald declared war on the Ministry of Magic."

Shouts erupted from students all over. Alphard whipped around to face Tom, eyes wide. "Did you know?" he whispered.

He shook his head.

"How is that possible?" he hissed. "You're part of his inner circle!"

"We are at War," concluded the Headmaster. "I believe each of you deserve to know. Remember that while you are at Hogwarts, you will always be safe. I suggest you don't go looking for trouble or try to join Grindelwald's side – only death waits for you there."

Dumbledore shifted in his seat, and he couldn't help but notice he looked pale.

"Hey, Nott," he said.

Corvus blinked. "What?"

Voldemort frowned.

"Is it still not too late to back out?"

A/N:

Previous Chapter: At Long Last

Next Chapter: Five Years to Forget


	15. Five Years to Forget

A/N: Hey dudes. If you're interested, I've started drawing Harry Potter comic strips for fun. They're on my Deviant Art. Link on my profile page. It's the same username, if you care to search it that way. Peace.

Five Years to Forget

The first year of the war involved lots of uncertainty. Having already graduated, Corvus only heard from Alphard's younger brother, Cygnus that many parents had taken their children out of school. Cygnus was not head boy (someone named Geoffrey Potter had taken that spot), but he was a prefect, and patrolling the halls at night had become increasingly lonely.

Corvus noticed that, of those Cygnus spoke of, the half that had taken their children home seemed to up and vanish and no one had seen them since. The other half, those who stayed at school, vehemently opposed the idea that Gellert Grindelwald posed any sort of threat to them.

The moment they had arrived at Kings Cross, Tom had grabbed Corvus and apparated to the war council room. Grindelwald seemed to expect them, as he smiled and looked coldly over them, greeting them calmly.

"You've declared war?" hissed Tom. "I was not informed!"

The dark wizard exhaled and leaned back in his seat. "My dear Riddle," he began, "I haven't had the chance. I know you turned eighteen this last year, and you're well over the legal age, but you were still in school. Was I supposed to involve a school boy in a war?"

Corvus watched his Lord's face turn an angry red. "I've been involved since Chernobyl!" he argued. "I thought you fancied me a part of your innermost circle! You said you trusted me with your life!"

Grindelwald chuckled and said, "Oh, Riddle. Are you that naïve? I trust no one." His eyes darkened. "It's why I'm still alive."

"Even so," Tom fought, rounding the side of the table, "You should have confided in me! Have you no concern for my council?"

"What council can an eighteen-year old boy give me?" he asked. "What's done is done, Riddle, and I wouldn't change it even if I was able."

"Then, _Sir_, what exactly is my task in your service?" he asked, doing his best to hide the mocking tone in his voice.

The elderly wizard hummed and played with a floating speck of dust in the air, catching it between his fingers. "You are my trump card," he said finally.

Tom blinked. "Trump card?"

"You may not understand what I'm using you for, Riddle," explained the man, "But you have to be patient. You must stay hidden."

He stared.

"No one can know you are working for me. Do you understand?"

He said nothing.

"Everyone else that is under my management will be found out. They'll be seen at battles, caught being spies, run out of their homes, thrown into prison… I can't have that for you. You _must_ stay a secret."

"I don't understand, Sir," he said.

"Every era comes to an end," said Grindelwald softly. "Even Merlin's time passed."

The boys glanced at each other, and Corvus felt in his gut that something wasn't being explained to them properly.

Tom spent the year quietly at the Black's.

The second year of the war was when people started to disappear. Not just in England, but all over Europe people were picking sides. They were either with Grindelwald or against him. Tom felt he had imposed on Alphard's home long enough, and despite Mrs. Black's assurance that he could stay as long as he liked, decided to move out.

Of course, living alone wasn't free. Tom hadn't been left an enormous fortune by his mother, and he'd killed his father before they could discuss such terms. It made him feel weak and worthless to say, but he was flat broke.

The Riddle mansion was still abandoned, as he recalled, but Tom refused to live there. It reeked of his patriarchal line. The day he accepted help from that man (despite his state of not-living) was the day he died.

So, with Grindelwald's permission, Lord Voldemort got a job.

Everyone had expected him to go into politics or healing, to work for the Ministry or some great cause, but Tom Riddle had no desire to further his education. Alphard didn't need to work, his family was so wealthy, but had been studying Ancient Runes more in depth. Corvus' household wasn't as well off as the Blacks, so he'd applied for furthered education at St. Mungo's. Even Crabbe had been going to school since they left Hogwarts for Magical Repair (but Tom doubted he had the brains for even that).

The only exception of his followers seemed to be Leo Lestrange, who was rich, knew it, and decided against more schooling. But even Leo had a job lined up, as some sort of Inquisitor for established businesses.

Now it was Tom's turn.

Borgin and Burkes was an unpleasant place in an unpleasant town, but Tom was paid royally; Four Galleons bi-weekly. In just a few months, he'd saved up enough to pay any deposit he so wished, and by March, he had moved from Alphard's home.

He watched the news like a hawk, scanning for word on the war. Another person had gone missing, another skirmish had broken out, and another witch had been declared dead…

It was hard, during these times, for him to not think of Ed. Two years had passed since his failed attempt to save her, and it haunted him. That man's face was trapped in his memory, sharp and clear. His purpose remained fuzzy, though. Why had he been there? Why had Ed interested him?

He had to forget, he told himself. It was time to move on.

The third year of the war was when all hell broke loose.

His twentieth birthday wasn't even a week away, and it snowed and snowed all over Europe. With the snow came the first real battle. Grindelwald marched on the stronghold in Germany with a thousand men, and the German Aurors put up a fight, but in the end they were outnumbered. England's Ministry sent Poland the soldiers they could spare, as they predicted Poland would be the Dark Wizard's next target.

They were right, but still vastly outnumbered.

With Germany and Poland in his grasp, Grindelwald called Tom for the first time in over a year.

Voldemort nervously smoothed back his dark hair and adjusted his robes before knocking firmly on the door. It swung open silently, and a voice called, "Enter."

Of course, Gellert wasn't one to stand on ceremony, and continued his letter writing even as Tom came in and sat down.

"It's been a while," he said, and dipped his quill in ink.

"I've been following the news on the war, Sir," he said. "It seems you're winning."

"Thank you for the update, Riddle, but the truth is I've been making terrible mistakes," grumbled the man.

Tom frowned. "Sir?"

His hand paused, and Grindelwald looked up. "Tell me," he said quietly, "Do you know what terrifies man above all else?"

He didn't understand the question, but shook his head.

"It's fear," he spat. "We've been allowing our enemy to roam free, spreading words of hope where there is none. That is wrong." Grindelwald placed the quill down and absentmindedly folded the letter. "I've decided to build a prison," he said.

Tom stared.

"Nurmengard, it will be called," he continued. "A prison to rival Azkaban. One for my opponents."

"Sir?"

"There they will rot until I have my wish, and we needn't hide our world like cowards and convicts," he hissed. "There they will stay until I can show everyone, Muggle filth and Wizards alike that Magic is here to stay. The day when all the world can be proud of our talents will be when they join me."

He chuckled and waved his wand. The letter vanished.

"Once there isn't a fleeting hope of rebellion, they will be on my side. Until then, it isn't right to kill them. They need only taste fear."

Tom listened quietly.

Grindelwald smiled. "When the prison is complete and its cells are full, then I will need you."

He knew better at this point than to ask why.

"It's your birthday, soon, isn't it?" he asked

"Yes, Sir," said Tom.

"You'll be twenty, won't you?"

"Yes."

The man's blue eyes darkened. "Happy Birthday."

The construction began the next morning.

During the fourth year of the war, fear was everywhere. Nurmengard was rising quickly, and everyone knew about the tall black tower. An entire family of anti-Grindelwald patriots were apprehended, half of which were slaughtered, and the remaining half were imprisoned in the completed floors of Grindelwald's stronghold.

Claiming the death and blood for the greater good, he marched on France's Ministry, and then Greece, then Croatia. It was no secret that once the prison was complete, England would be his final conquest.

It was only after Tom read in the Daily Prophet that Gellert Grindelwald had been given the title 'darkest wizard of all time' that the young man first heard of the Order of the Phoenix. The group of pro-patriot men and women were seemingly a myth cooked up by hopeful schoolboys, and it was unlikely that such an organization existed in reality.

Just as Grindelwald wished, Voldemort kept his head down and worked quietly at Borgin and Burkes. As he stocked the shelves with dark artifacts and worthless junk, he felt his heart still lay with his home.

There was no way the dark wizard would allow Tom to work in so visible a place as Hogwarts, so he decided he'd just have to apply in secret. After sending his resume, a magnificent black owl arrived at his small home a week later.

Voldemort dropped the plate of eggs he was having for breakfast and dashed to the window. Once he pushed it open, the pecking stopped, and the owl hopped inside. It gave Tom an exasperated look and held out its leg, where a rolled bit of parchment dangled.

He nigh ripped the letter off the Owl, which shrieked in surprise and pecked his hand firmly before taking flight back out through the window. His eyes scanned the words quickly, and he read it again and again. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up the slightest bit, and he felt his heart might burst.

There was a knock on his door, and a moment later it swung open and Alphard walked inside, sighing heavily.

"You will not _believe _the morning I've had, My Lord," he said, oblivious to the fact that Voldemort had started dancing from foot to foot. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to just _plan _an expedition to the Stone Henge? Merlin's beard, the amount of sleep I've lost this last week-"

"Alphard,"

"I don't even know why we have to study it," he continued. "I'd rather look into more effect Runes, like the ones in Egypt. We haven't even gone inside the Pyramids, and I'm pretty damn sure King Tut was a wizard-"

"Alphard!"

"-which means all the traps could be potentially life-threatening, and-"

"Black, will you shut up for a second?!" Tom yelled.

Alphard's mouth snapped shut.

He took a breath. "Read this."

The longer-haired boy took the letter from his Lord's hand and glance it over. His expression slowly changed from confusion to disbelief, and then he grinned and his head shot up. "Is this real?" he asked.

Voldemort nodded.

To his surprise, Alphard's eyes began to water. "My Lord…"

"Wha- Don't- Why are you crying?!" Tom yelled.

"I'm not!" he insisted. "I just… My Lord, you have an interview! You might get to go back to Hogwarts!"

He swallowed and tried to keep the warm bubbling feeling in his stomach. "I know."

What surprised him more than the letter or the tears was what his friend did next; Alphard reached out and crushed Tom into a huge hug. His head barely came up to Tom's eyes, but he was very strong, and the wind was knocked out of the dark-haired boy's chest.

"You've wanted this for a long time," he whispered. "Thank Merlin, My Lord… Thank Merlin…"

Tom sighed. "Alphard-"

The sound of creaking met his ears, and from over the top of his friend's hair, he watched as the front entrance opened. Corvus stood, frozen, in the doorway, his pale blue eyes fixed on them. He had gone completely pale.

Tom pulled away from Alphard's embrace quickly. "Nott-"

"Grindelwald wants to see you on Sunday," he whispered, backing away. "I'm sorry for intruding."

Voldemort cried, "Nott!" but he had already disappeared.

Alphard turned around. "Corvus?" he asked. "Was Corvus here?"

Tom ignored him and ran out into the morning air. The blonde's cloak whipped out of sight around the corner of the next row of flats, and he gave chase. It was already November again, and the cobblestone bit painfully into his feet as he rued not having the foresight to put on shoes.

He grit his teeth as he gave chase. God damn, why did Nott have to visit right then? Tom was no fool – he'd _seen_ how the boy looked at Alphard, even from years and years ago, and since the war started it had only gotten worse.

The night they broke into the Estate filled his mind. Corvus had sobbed and screamed when he thought Alphard was dead. Tom knew full well what he was thinking after seeing them.

"Nott!"

He did not slow.

Tom caught his shoulder right before he rounded the next corner. "_Nott!_"

"Let _go _of me!" he hissed.

"Listen!" the Dark Lord insisted. "It isn't what you think!"

The boy froze.

"It isn't what you think!" he said again.

Corvus' arms went limp, and it was like all the will was being sucked from his body. "Then…"

"I got a letter from Professor Dumbledore!" he explained. "I have an interview for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Alphard was congratulating me."

His blue eyes blinked. "You… You have an interview?"

"Yes."

"You've wanted that job for years," he whispered. "I – Oh, God, Tom, this is… this is wonderful. Then, what happened was…?"

"He was just happy for me," he confirmed. "He only hugged me because he was happy, Nott."

He looked noticeably relieved, but still confused. He caught sight of Tom's bare feet. "…You ran out here without shoes?"

"I was worried about you," he admitted.

Corvus laughed a little, and shook his head. "The things you do, Tom."

He slowly let go of the blonde's shoulders. "Nott," he whispered, "I want you to know… Alphard is and only ever will be my friend."

He said nothing, so Tom embellished.

"There's nothing else between us. Really."

He looked up at this Lord then, surprise in his eyes.

Somewhere in the dank alley, a door creaked open, and he ignored it.

"I swear it."

Corvus swallowed. "You knew?"

He nodded.

"You really knew, for all these years?"

Whoever had exited their house paused to look at the two boys and shook their head and moved on. Tom sighed. "Nott…"

"I need to say it myself," begged Corvus. "I have to be the one to say it. I-"

Voldemort froze.

"Tom?"

He spun around. The shape of the person twisted out of sight around the corner.

"My Lord, what is it?"

"No way," he whispered. "No _fucking _way."

"Tom?!"

He was running again, stones digging into the flesh of his feet, fumbling for his wand as he did. He dimly heard Corvus yell after him, but it was like his ears had frozen over, his heart had stopped beating, and he couldn't breathe. He rounded the corner, and the cloaked figure was just ahead.

He was taking no chances.

"_Stupify!_" he screamed, and the red jet of light hit the figure square in the back. It crumpled to the cold ground, and he rushed over.

Corvus caught up to him just as Tom turned the figure onto its back. "What – what on earth are you doing?!" he cried.

He stared. "I was right," he whispered.

The perplexed blonde yelled, "About what?!"

He gazed down at the orange hair and dark hole where an ear should have been and said, "It's him, Nott. This is Walter Leway."

Tom Riddle learned before five years had passed that he could never forget.

A/N:

Previous Chapter: Confessions of a Dark Lord

Next Chapter: Fidelity


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